


the knock at the door came one, two, three

by eneiryu



Series: we're built to last [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brett Talbot Lives, Growing Out, Growing Up, How to Survive Surviving a War, Lori Talbot Lives, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 103,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eneiryu/pseuds/eneiryu
Summary: It’s the backstory. It’s how you all survive surviving the war.
Relationships: Liam Dunbar/Brett Talbot, Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken/Brett Talbot, Theo Raeken/Brett Talbot
Series: we're built to last [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904557
Comments: 268
Kudos: 284
Collections: fics to send to my sister, finished shit





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I do in fact realize that for the first time _ever_ , I am not posting a massive fic all at once. I was going to make a joke about how nobody needed to worry about the world ending because of it, but. You know. 
> 
> This story is in fact complete. It is, however, 102k words, and after thinking about it and consulting some experts (namely [snaeken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snaeken) and [ExtraSteps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraSteps/pseuds/ExtraSteps)), I decided to try breaking it into chapters, and posting on a rolling basis. There are 13 chapters, and the current plan is to post one a day. Strap in, folks.
> 
> A side but _incredibly_ important note: I really cannot overstate the herculean work put into this story by [snaeken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snaeken) and [ExtraSteps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraSteps/pseuds/ExtraSteps). I may have written it, but it is as much their story as mine. I cannot thank them enough, and to the extent you are happy that this story exists, direct your gratitude in their directions—they deserve it.

Art by [snaeken](https://snaeken.tumblr.com/)

\---

_**Brett** _

Brett wakes up in the hospital, and the first thing he notices when he eases open his eyes is:

“Aw, Dunbar,” he croaks, his voice rasping and dry and _painful_. “Have you been waiting at my bedside? That’s sweet.”

Liam laughs, but it’s—not a particularly nice sound. It’s as croaking and rasping and dry as Brett’s voice had been; it sounds like it might have been just as painful. Brett manages to turn his head to the side to look at him just as Liam levers himself out of the chair he’d been huddled inside, and to his feet. 

Liam meets his eyes for a handful of seconds, and then he looks away again. “I have to go tell Scott you’re awake,” he says. Brett watches his throat bob, brow furrowing.

_What happened after we left the tunnels?_ Brett wants to ask. _Where’s Monroe?_ He nearly demands. What actually falls out of his mouth is:

“Liam,” Brett rasps, stopping Liam halfway through the doorway. “Where’s my sister?”

Liam glances back at him, and then to the side. Brett frowns, but he hears it, too; pounding footsteps, coming closer and closer. Liam shifts to the side and Brett sucks in a breath as Lori darts through the space Liam had made, and rockets immediately over and then _onto_ Brett’s bed. Brett _oofs_ and his entire body aches, but he wraps his arms just as tightly around Lori as she wraps her arms around him, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder. 

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Liam murmurs, and is gone.

Brett barely notices; the side of his neck is wet. “Hey,” he whispers, combing his fingers back through Lori’s tangled hair. “Hey, hey. Lori, it’s okay. We’re okay.”

Lori just shakes her head, and burrows a little harder against him. Brett gives up on trying to dislodge her to get a look at her face, and just wraps one hand around the back of her skull, the other stroking and stroking down her back. And maybe it’s that soothing rhythm or maybe it’s the shock of Brett waking up wearing off, but eventually Lori pulls back, and sits up on her hip to look down at him.

“Hey,” Brett tries again. “It’s—”

“Brett,” Lori interrupts, quiet and with voice breaking on his name. “You need to see something.”

She takes out her phone. As she unlocks it and starts navigating around the apps, Brett’s certain she’s going to show him a picture of something; he starts to sit up. He gets distracted by the way his whole body _twinges_ at the movement, and by the time he’s grunted through the pain and managed to uncurl himself from around the core of himself again, Lori is waiting with her phone. 

But not with a picture on screen. With the _camera_ _app_ open and waiting, and flipped around to selfie-mode. Brett stares.

“Brett,” Lori whispers, just as brokenly. “Shift your eyes.”

Brett feels a twinge of intuition. The _last_ thing he wants to do, suddenly, is shift his eyes; he flicks a look up at Lori, whose expression is already trembling-tight with tension. She bites her lip, and holds up her phone a little more insistently.

Brett shifts his eyes.

Every ounce of oxygen in his chest shudders loose of his lungs as he looks at the red eyes—his _own_ red eyes—staring back at him. Brett can’t help it, even though he can _feel_ the truth of it in his own body, his muscles and blood and bones; he reaches forward and snatches Lori’s phone away from her, and brings it closer to his face. 

He spends a long minute, two, just staring at his eyes in the sleek gloss of Lori’s phone screen, and then he finally drags his gaze back up to Lori’s.

Her expression crumples in like a soda can being crushed, and this time when she lunges at him, and buries her wet face in his neck, Brett has to turn his own face against her hair, and hide his own damp eyes. 

_**Liam** _

Liam doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Brett and Lori’s reunion; he just doesn’t manage to get far enough away before it starts.

He feels his feet slowing as he hears Lori start to cry, the sound of it muffled like she’d pressed her face up against something. His head turns automatically back towards the room, over his shoulder, as Brett starts trying and failing to comfort her, but it isn’t until Lori tells her brother _you need to see something_ that Liam jolts and hurries away, again.

But he hears it when Brett’s breath hitches. He smells it when Brett’s scent goes bitter and ashy and coats the back of his tongue.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut, and brings his closed fists up to press _hard_ against his forehead.

And then he jerks backwards with a lightning-stab of adrenaline down his spine when someone suddenly says, “Liam?,” from directly in front of him. He drops his hands, and looks at Ms. McCall.

“Um, hi,” he greets, inanely. His eyes are flared, he realizes in the next moment. He blinks and shakes his head, trying to banish the shift.

Ms. McCall just watches him carefully. “Everything okay?” 

_No_ , Liam thinks. “Yes,” Liam says. 

Ms. McCall clearly doesn’t believe him. She looks back down the hallway, towards Brett’s room. “He’s awake,” she realizes, exhaling it out softly. Her scent _blooms_ with relief; it makes Liam’s nose itch.

“Uh, yeah,” Liam agrees, bringing up one wrist to rub absently at the bottom of his nose. “Lori is—Lori’s in there with him, now, though,” he adds, more than a little lamely. 

Still, Ms. McCall seems to get what he’s implying. She hums, and chews her bottom lip. “I need to finish my rounds, anyway. I can check on him last.”

She smiles at him when she’s done, soft and sympathetic. “Okay,” Liam agrees, a little blankly. Ms. McCall studies him for a few more seconds, and then she reaches out an arm to wrap it around his shoulders, and reel him in. She presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Maybe now you can go home and get some sleep, huh?” She murmurs against the top of his skull.

Liam flinches. “Uh, yeah. Maybe,” he says. When Ms. McCall sighs in response, it ruffles the hair on the top of his head. _I need a haircut_ , Liam realizes absently, and then flinches again.

Ms. McCall releases him. “When you see my son, tell him I need to talk with him? Even true alphas still have to remember to take out the trash.”

“Sure,” Liam tells her, and stays right where he is, rooted in the middle of the hallway as she walks away. 

It’s only once she rounds the corner, and disappears from view, that he risks bringing his still-closed fists up in front of himself. He uncurls his fingers slow, wincing, and stares down at the four neat, bloody half-moons punched deep through each of his palms. 

He stares down at them until they heal.

_**Theo** _

Theo’s not at the hospital when Brett Talbot finally wakes up; he’s at the animal clinic.

He’s at the animal clinic with Argent, and the Sheriff, and Parrish, and Derek, and he’s under absolutely no illusions about why they’re all there; as an escort, not an honor guard. He swallows past the cornered-animal feeling in his chest, his eyes flicking to and then away from Derek and Derek’s subtly-flared nostrils, and goes where Argent points him. 

Deaton looks as serene as he ever does across the exam room table. Theo wonders, viciously, if he’d looked this serene when he was hanging from his wrists as a sacrifice in that bank vault, and then forces the thought away; Deaton gives him a look like he’d maybe known what Theo was thinking anyway. 

Or, alternatively: like Theo is just that predictable. Theo feels his chest clench. 

The collection of ingredients arranged in front of Deaton look innocuous enough: jars of herbs and a little bottle of some kind of oil, a strip of half-inch wide brown leather and a little bowl. It isn’t until he looks at Argent and asks, “Ready?,” and starts mixing the herbs and oil together in the bowl that Theo feels tension start to winch the muscles along his spine tight; the scent of magic immediately starts to pervade the room, electric and sharp.

It only gets sharper when Deaton gestures for Argent to hold his hand over the herb mixture in the bowl, and uses a scalpel to prick the very tip of one of Argent’s fingers. Deaton sets the scalpel down and then reaches back up to take hold of Argent’s fingertip, and squeezes one, two, three drops of blood from it. They splash down into the mixture.

Argent takes his hand back, and accepts the clean cloth that Deaton offers. “That it?”

“From you,” Deaton agrees, his voice thick with amusement; Argent rolls his eyes.

Deaton ignores him—and Theo for that matter, still stood opposite him—and swirls the bowl around to mix Argent’s blood into the herb mixture. Once he’s apparently satisfied, he picks up some sort of metal tool, and dips it into the mixture before pressing the tip to the strip of leather. As Theo—and Argent, and the Sheriff, and Parrish and Derek—watch, he paints several shapes using the herb-and-blood mixture across the strip.

Finally he straightens up, and this time when he gestures, he gestures at Theo. “Your wrist, please, Mr. Raeken,” Deaton requests.

Theo feels his teeth clench, and try to grind; he barely manages to stop them. Bringing his left arm up—his fingers curled into a helpless fist—he hesitates just a second, and then lays it down into the cup of Deaton’s held-up palm. 

Deaton’s fingers curling around his wrist feel almost exactly like the heavy, visceral _thunk_ of a cell door slamming shut.

Holding Theo’s forearm in one hand, Deaton reaches down for the other and retrieves the leather strip—the shapes now dried into strange, flaky runes—and gets it wrapped around Theo’s wrist. “Hold this closed, please,” he requests, his eyes flicking up to meet Theo’s. 

The air in the room almost seems to _thrum_ with tension as Deaton looks at Theo, and Theo stares back at him. But after another beat of hesitation, Theo reaches up and holds the two ends of the leather strip closed; his fingertips brush the runes, and _burn_. He grits his teeth.

With both hands free Deaton reaches back down for his bowl with its herb-and-blood mixture, and picks the metal tool back up. He dips the latter into the former, and then uses one hand to hold Theo’s wrist steady as he uses the metal tool in his other hand to paint one last rune over the seam where the two ends of the leather strip meet.

There’s a brief rush of air throughout the room and Theo closes his eyes on a flinch as his ears pop, and when he blinks them back open, the seam is gone, and the runes covering the now-bracelet are burned deep into the leather. Theo’s nose wrinkles at the scent of burnt leather; he can see Derek’s and Parrish’s doing the same.

“There,” Deaton says, and releases Theo’s wrist. Theo can’t help snatching it back, his other hand coming up to cover the bracelet, to hide it from view; the leather still feels warm, like a living, breathing thing. “Now,” Deaton continues, “if you wouldn’t mind, I have _actual_ patients to see.”

The Sheriff and Parrish head for the station once they all step back outside of the animal clinic. Derek—after disappearing behind Argent’s SUV for a moment—shivers loose of his clothes, and takes off as a wolf to go run a patrol.

Theo stands silently just in front of Argent’s SUV as Argent gathers up Derek’s clothes, and tosses them carelessly into his backseat. He still has one hand wrapped around the bracelet around his wrist.

Finally Argent turns back to him, and dips one hand into his pocket. When he pulls it back out, Argent’s holding his truck keys. He tosses them over. Theo catches them, and glances down at them in his palm.

When he looks back up, Argent is climbing up into the driver’s side of his SUV. He smirks when he catches Theo’s eyes. “Welcome to your supervised release,” he says, and then he slams his door shut, and drives away.

Theo closes his fingers around his keys, and stares after him until his tail lights disappear.

_**Brett** _

_I don’t know what any of this means_ , Brett thinks blankly to himself, staring down at the stack of papers that Satomi’s attorney had handed him. They might as well be in Greek for all the sense they make. 

“It’s okay, Brett,” Filipo murmurs. Brett looks up at him from his place on the McCall’s living room couch, recognizing the tone; it’s the same one he’d used when he’d been explaining how Brett and Lori’s adoption would work, all those years ago. “I’m going to help you get this all sorted out.”

Brett feels his teeth clench, and has to consciously stop his eyes from flaring red. As it is his fingers are still curling tightly enough around one of the packets— _Last Will and Testament_ —that he has to force himself to drop it before he accidentally crumples it.

“Well,” he says, and sits up. He wonders where Lori is, briefly, and then almost immediately doesn’t have to wonder anymore; she’s with Lydia and Malia and Ms. McCall downtown. 

No one had told him. _Lori_ hadn’t told him. He just—he just knows.

“Well,” he repeats, like he hadn’t faltered. “Then figure out how to help me and Lori get this _all sorted out_ somewhere else,” he orders, and it _is_ an order; he can feel the _alpha_ of it rumble through his own chest, and barely manages to smother a wince. Filipo doesn’t even flinch, but then again: he’d been Satomi’s attorney for as long as Brett could remember. “We’re not staying here.”

“Yes, you are,” someone else counters. “You have to.”

“Chris,” Scott McCall chastises quietly, turning to frown at Chris Argent. But Argent’s unrepentant; he raises his eyebrows right back.

“He _has to_ ,” Argent just repeats, looking from Scott to Filipo and only afterwards glancing at Brett; Brett feels his lip start to curl in a snarl. “You both know he has to.”

“Why?” Brett cuts in, and cuts his tongue on his suddenly-dropped fangs; _christ_ , he hasn’t had this many issues with controlling the shift since _puberty_. He ignores it. “Because of _Monroe?_ ” 

He sneers out her name, meaning to sound dismissive. What he actually sounds is _terrified_ ; for a moment all he can hear is the _thwip_ of the crossbow bolts she’d fired at him that night, the all-consuming _roar_ of the engine of the car that one of her mouth-breathing followers had used to try and run him and his sister down. He swallows, but as he does it he winds up swallowing the blood from his cut tongue. He barely manages not to gag.

“No,” Filipo hurries to answer, shooting a warning look at Argent. “It’s because you’re eighteen, and now an alpha.” 

“And eighteen year-olds,” Argent adds, and looks pointedly at Brett, “aren’t exactly known for their stellar impulse control.”

He’d caught Brett’s struggles to control his eyes and his fangs and strength, Brett realizes. He flinches. 

This time it’s Scott who shoots Argent a warning look. “ _Speaking as_ the only other formerly-eighteen-year-old alpha in this room,” he says, over-loud and clearly for Argent’s—and Filipo’s—benefit, before he lowers his voice to a more normal volume and grimaces sympathetically at Brett, “it sucks. It’s hard. It’s _really_ hard.”

“And a lot of the time, it’s _too hard_ for those young alphas,” Argent adds, and doesn’t react at all to Scott’s glare when Scott whips around to make a face at him. Instead he just looks at Brett and rattles off the names of a bunch of places. “Talkeetna, Alaska. Stowe, Vermont. Whitefish, Montana. Know what they all had in common?”

The last one Brett recognizes; Satomi had been gone for _weeks_ a few years ago, trying to clean up the fall-out. “Rogue alphas,” Brett grudgingly replies.

“ _Young_ rogue alphas,” Argent corrects pointedly. “And in most cases, ones that had suffered extreme trauma that led to them _becoming_ alphas.” 

He doesn’t have to be any more explicit than that; Brett gets the parallels. 

“So me and Lori, what, have to stay here under your protection until I can prove that I’m not a ticking time bomb?” Brett sneers, looking at Scott.

But once again it’s Argent who answers. “Not his protection,” he counters. “Mine.”

“What?” Brett asks, baffled.

“The established hunter families,” Filipo interrupts, and Brett can’t help mentally interjecting _the non-crazy ones_ , “don’t like unsupervised young alphas. By staying here under Mr. Argent’s protection—”

But Brett can’t help interrupting. This whole conversation—since he woke up, really—the inside of his ribs has felt like a cauldron of noxious feeling, the barely-restrained _potential_ of the alpha abilities simmering through his blood and infecting his grief and his guilt and now his _anger_ and making them all fester, and it all bubbles over; it all bubbles up, and out of his mouth.

“Oh, so it’s not that I have to stay here to prove I’m not a ticking time bomb to _you_ ,” he snarls at Scott, and absently realizes that his eyes have flared when Scott’s flare reflexively right back, “it’s that I have to stay here as _your_ _pet_ until I can prove to _you_ ,” he snaps, looking at Argent, “and your murderous cabal of hunter buddies that I’m capable of not pissing all over the carpet!”

Brett’s fully shifted, now, he can feel it. But Argent just smirks. “If you want to think of it like that,” he acknowledges, shrugging, “then sure.”

“Chris!” Scott shrills, throwing up his hands and then burying his face in his palms with a frustrated groan.

“Brett,” Filipo cuts in, and takes a step forward and to the side to physically draw Brett’s attention. “Brett, listen to me.” Brett looks at him. He looks calm, unaffected, but there’s a thread of reflexive fear running through his scent; Brett swallows, _shame_ mixing itself into the already-overflowing mess in his chest, and does his best to force the shift down with his throat as it works. “It doesn’t change anything, okay? You still have to graduate. _Lori_ still has to graduate. This way, you can do it without interference from the other hunter clans.”

Brett stares at him. “Graduate,” he repeats bluntly, then: “ _Graduate?_ ” He says incredulously, and at volume; Filipo and Scott—though not Argent—both flinch. 

“It’s in Satomi’s will,” Filipo tells him, “if nothing else.” When he sees that Brett has calmed down enough to frown at him, he nods towards the myriad stacks paperwork spread out in front of Brett. “You inherit all of her not-insignificant assets as the inheritor of her alpha abilities, _as soon as_ you graduate from high school.”

Even through the toxic mess eating away at his heart, his lungs, Brett still feels a crack of amusement—amusement, and genuine, grief-stricken affection—break through. “That interfering old hag,” he mutters, and humiliatingly enough feels tears start to burn in the corner of his eyes, even as he mentally hears Lori shriek _Brett!_ in rebuke; he swipes one hand underneath his eyes. “Even in death she still manages to be a massive pain in my ass.”

He glances up at Filipo to find him smiling just as shakily—just as sadly—back. Closing his eyes and scrubbing the heels of his palms over them, Brett sighs heavily and rakes his hands back through his hair. He plants his elbows—his fingers laced together over the back of his skull—on his knees, and looks back up at Filipo.

“A new apartment, then,” he bargains, and almost immediately winces. “Lori and I, I don’t want. We _can’t go—_ ” He can’t finish.

Luckily he doesn’t need to. “Done,” Filipo answers quietly; gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

The exhale that shudders loose of Brett’s lungs is shakier than he’d like; more relieved, and revealing, than he’d have wanted it to be. He switches his attention to Scott and Argent.

“Anything else?” He wonders aggressively.

“No,” Scott hurries to deny, and then almost immediately contradicts himself: “Not right now, anyway.” 

He has the good grace to wince, though, and so Brett—lets it go.

The apartment Filipo finds for him and Lori is fifteen minutes from Devenford, out on the edge of town and bordered by a nature preserve, and small enough that Brett can hear Lori’s heartbeat perfectly no matter where he is, or she is, or they are, inside it; Brett closes his eyes when they step inside for the first time, and feels _relief_ shudder down his spine. 

He opens his eyes and looks down when Lori leans against him; he gets an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in tighter, hiding his face in her hair for a moment as he breathes.

The bedroom he chooses is closer to the front door, with a window that borders the street outside. That night there’s an ambulance parked across the street, no siren but with its lights revolving and revolving and revolving; spilling through the slatted shades. 

Brett falls asleep that night staring up at the red light painted across his ceiling. It takes a long time.

_**Liam** _

“What do you mean, what aisle am I in?” Liam asks, exasperated, his phone wedged between his shoulder and neck as he pokes at various boxes on the shelves. “You said it was a _cracker_. I am in the _cracker_ aisle.”

“I _said_ ,” his mom shoots back, meeting him exasperation for exasperation, “that it was a type of _imported_ cracker, and that it would be in the _imported foods_ aisle.”

Liam has zero recollection of this. He tells his mom so. 

“You and David, I swear to god,” Jenna Geyer mutters. “ _Selective listening_ , the both of you.”

Liam’s grinning widely to himself as he swings out of his current aisle—out of the _cracker_ aisle, where _crackers_ should be—and towards the aisle one over. “Which is the imported foods section, again?” He asks his mom, and he’s distracted enough that he nearly collides directly with a grocery clerk restocking a display case of tortilla chips.

He manages to fumble to a somewhat clumsy stop just inches before there would have been a crumb-laden catastrophe. Liam blinks, and then finally gets a good look at the clerk’s face, and blanches. Across from him, the clerk goes through the exact same set of motions.

“Uh, seven, I think,” Liam’s mom is saying, sounding tinny and far away and not just because Liam is clutching his phone to his chest. 

“Um, hi, Liam,” Brandon Morales greets, his voice about a full octave higher than it usually is. 

Than it _was_ , the day he’d helped hold Mason and Corey back while Gabe and Nolan kicked the absolute shit out of Liam at the school. He’s clutching a bag of tortilla chips hard enough to his chest that he’s crushing them into crumbs, and it’s not _fear_ that’s saturating his scent, and clogging up Liam’s nose and throat. 

“Is there,” Brandon’s eyes flicker down Liam’s phone, “is there something I can help you find?” He offers, still in that same squeaky tone.

“No,” Liam denies immediately, and only after swallowing around the mouthful of reflexive saliva that had flooded his mouth, Brandon’s guilt coating the inside of it like Liam had bitten into a rotten piece of fruit. “No, I’m.” He swallows again. “No.”

“Did you just _refuse help_ from an actual employee of the store?” He hears his mom wonder, outraged, but he ignores it as he darts around Brandon without another word and jogs down the aisles until he finds the one he’s looking for, _Imported Foods_ writ stark across the sign hanging in the middle of it. 

“I’ve got the crackers,” he tells his mom seconds later. “Was there anything else?”

There’s something wrong with his voice. There’s something wrong with _him_ , his throat and chest and guts tight; he has to deliberately relax his hand around the box of crackers before he tightens it hard enough to destroy the flimsy cardboard container. 

“Liam,” his mom asks, suddenly quiet. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Liam answers automatically. “I’ll be home in a bit. I promised dad I’d bring him dinner.”

“Don’t forget to stop by the mechanic’s, too,” she reminds him after a second’s hesitation. “They need someone to sign that form for the rest of the work on your SUV.”

_Shit_ , Liam silently curses. “Right,” he says.

He stops by the mechanic’s. He signs the form. He does all of it while keeping his eyes glued firmly to the counter in front of him, because if he looks up, and looks back into the rest of the shop, he’s going to have to look at Vince Pisani, who _B.T.M._ — Before Tamora Monroe—had always joked and laughed with Liam every time he’d bring his constantly-breaking-down junker of an SUV into the shop, but who _A.T.M._ now just makes Liam think of exactly how he’d looked that night at the hospital when he’d been pointing an automatic rifle directly at Liam’s chest. 

“Thanks,” he mutters to the shop owner as he slides the signed form back over. When he turns to leave, he catches Vince’s eyes in the reflection of the glass door. Vince’s expression is raw like an open wound; Liam slams through the door, and back out into the parking lot and to his mom’s borrowed car.

_Wow, and I thought_ Scott _had a flair for the dramatic_ , Theo had said, the first time Liam had idiotically let his new epoch-naming scheme slip. _‘B.T.M.’_ , Theo had repeated, and then given a great, honking laugh that had startled Liam in its unrestrained—its unrestrained _genuineness_. He stared in surprise at Theo even as Theo had continued, _And it’s not even that accurate, is it? Wouldn’t a better term be B.T.A?_

_The Anuk-ite was just the excuse they all used_ , Liam had shot back. He still isn’t sure if he’d meant it.

He puts in an order at the Peruvian place on State Street while still sitting in the shop’s parking lot. It’s ready by the time he picks it up, and Liam drives with the bagged stack of plastic containers sat carefully in the passenger seat, one hand on top of it to keep it from sliding around as he navigates through the late afternoon traffic. 

His dad’s in surgery, the white board with the duty roster on the fourth floor declares. Liam tightens his arms around the food he’s holding and sighs, quietly. He takes a step back, about to pivot on his heel for the staff lounge down the hallway, when a green-scrubbed nurse exits a patient’s room nearby and spots him.

“Liam,” she stutters, and nearly fumbles the patient’s chart in her hands. She recovers it with a few fumbled motions, and flushes as she looks back up at him. “You, uh. You looking for your dad?”

“He’s in surgery,” Liam replies neutrally. If he isn’t careful, his claws are going to punch holes in his dad’s _bistec a la limena_ ; he tries to focus on relaxing, and not on how the nurse had looked that night as she’d handed over patient files to one of Monroe’s follower-deputies. 

The nurse’s eyes flick to the duty roster. “Right,” she agrees. “Um, right.”

Liam takes another step back. “Well, I’m just going to—” He doesn’t have a free hand to jerk over his shoulder, so he jerks his chin instead.

“Liam?” Someone else says, interrupting. Liam startles and looks around at Ms. McCall as she comes up behind him. He manages it just as Ms. McCall catches sight of the nurse still standing frozen in the hallway, and her expression goes tight. “Finished your rounds, there, Loken?” She asks pointedly. 

The nurse flushes again. “No, ma’am. I’ll just,” she gestures vaguely in the direction of the rest of the hallway.

“Good idea,” Ms. McCall agrees stonily. She watches until the nurse disappears around a corner, and then turns back to Liam. “You okay?”

“Why does everybody keep asking me that?” Liam snaps, before he can help himself.

Ms. McCall’s eyebrows shoot up. “I wonder,” she replies dryly; Liam colors. She looks down at the bag in his arms. “That for David?”

Liam swallows, and offers it up, best he can. “And for you,” he agrees, quietly and more than a little apologetically.

Ms. McCall brightens. “You didn’t,” she says, delight curling the edges of her vowels.

“Lomo saltado,” Liam answers, grinning shakily.

He hands her the bag when she reaches for it, and nods when she says she’d put the rest in the staff fridge for his dad. He’s expecting her to leave, then, but instead she just shifts to hold the bag on one hip, and looks at him evaluatively.

“You end up getting that sleep we talked about?” She asks.

_No_ , Liam thinks. “Yes,” he lies.

She clearly doesn’t believe him. But she also doesn’t call him out on it. Instead she sighs, and starts down the hallway towards the staff lounge. She stops when she’s parallel with him, and uses her free arm to reach up and wrap a hand around the back of his head so that she can pull him gently in and give him a soft kiss to the side of his temple. 

“ _Please_ go home and get some sleep,” she murmurs against his skin, and rubs one thumb under his opposite eye; rubs it over the deep, purpled bruise sunk there and that even his werewolf healing had given up on trying to erase.

“Sure,” Liam agrees, but he doesn’t go home. 

He goes to the school instead. Specifically he goes to the lacrosse field, and the damp metal bleachers bordering it. Flat on his back and staring up at the night-dark sky, he watches the stars overhead glitter, and breathes in the wet smell of earth, and listens to the town in the distance as it goes on as normally as ever.

As normally as _B.T.M._

Liam groans, and brings his hands up to cover his squeezed-shut eyes. But even so, the sallow light from the streetlights nearby seeps through his fingers, and coats the back of his eyelids gold, gold, gold. 

_**Theo** _

Theo stands stock-still in the McCall kitchen, his eyes on Scott and his mouth hanging open. “You can’t be serious. You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

“Entirely possible,” Scott agrees cheerfully, and continues putting away the brown bags of groceries lined up on the island. 

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had,” Theo presses, because it _is_.

Scott frowns thoughtfully. “I thought it was kind of genius, actually.”

“You thought it was—” Theo repeats incredulously, then has to cut himself off. “The last time I enrolled in a high school to ‘keep an eye on’ an alpha, it was for the express purpose of _killing_ that alpha and stealing their powers!” Theo shouts. And then, when Scott continues to look inappropriately unmoved: “And that alpha was you!”

Finally— _finally_ —Scott stops screwing around with the groceries and looks at him directly. “Well,” he says, sounding _irritatingly_ calm, “do you _want_ to kill Brett and steal his powers?”

Theo recoils, immediately and instinctively, because the thought—the immediate, visceral, helpless vision that blooms in his mind of putting his clawed hand through Brett’s flesh, just like he’d done to Josh, to Tracy—makes him actually, physically ill. Scott sees it.

“So, there we go,” he concludes easily, and goes back to putting away groceries.

Theo stares at him in disbelief for a few seconds longer, and then switches targets. “You can’t tell me _you’re_ okay with this,” he snaps, pivoting on his heel to look back at Argent.

Argent shrugs. He’s sat at the McCall kitchen table, a disassembled rifle laid out in front of him, and he’s currently cleaning the innards of the firing mechanism with a viscous bottle of oil and a cloth. “It’s not like we wouldn’t be able to find you if you _did_ do something immensely stupid,” he points out, and meets Theo’s eyes when Theo’s jaw tightens. “Which you know.”

Theo barely resists the urge to cover his left wrist with his right hand; to cover the seamless leather bracelet there. 

“Which means,” Argent concludes, and huffs out a breath as he sets down one of the apparently now-clean pieces of the mechanism, and leans over to pick up another a little further away down the table, “that you won’t do anything stupid.”

It’s as much a statement of fact as it is a reminder; Theo feels something in his chest twinge. 

“Look, Theo,” Scott says, drawing his attention again. Theo looks back at him. “If it helps to think of it this way, then think of it this way: you’re our only option.” At Theo’s furrowed-brow stare, Scott shrugs and explains, “Malia and I have already graduated, Stiles and Lydia are back at college, and I can’t,” Scott says _can’t_ , but what Theo hears is _won’t_ , “ask Liam or Mason or Corey to switch schools midway through their senior year. That leaves you.”

And then he brightens.

“Not to mention,” he adds, “this way you _do_ actually manage to graduate, and get your diploma.”

“Oh,” Theo shoots back, ignoring the _new_ twinge of something his chest—disbelief, an unexpected rush of gratitude, the pervasive and all-encompassing, acidic film of _guilt_ coating the inside of his ribcage: “so you’ll take this fucking thing _off_ me if I do this, then?” He holds up his left wrist demonstratively.

Scott opens his mouth, but it’s Argent who manages to answer first. “We can certainly _talk_ about taking it off you, if you do this,” he demurs, and flicks his eyes up to meet Theo’s when Theo turns his head to glare at him. Theo grits his teeth, and looks back at Scott.

Scott gives him a quirked, sympathetic smile. “Ms. Martin already took care of all the paperwork and everything. You start at Devenford on Monday.”

“Great,” Theo replies sourly. “Just fucking—fantastic.”

Devenford’s forty minutes away from Beacon Hills in perfect traffic, which considering the commute involves a stretch of State Highway 32, will never exist. Later that afternoon, Theo gathers up his meager personal belongings out of the apartment in Derek’s building that Derek had been letting him crash in, and gets in his truck to follow Argent to the new apartment that Argent had found for him. “Who’s _paying_ for this?” Theo had wondered, and Argent had replied, “Peter,” with a particularly vindictive smile.

It’s a small apartment; not exactly cramped, but not expansive, either. It’s also right across the street from Brett and Lori Talbot’s new place. Theo wonders how long it’ll take one or both of them to realize. 

And then he jerks and complains, “Hey!,” when Argent suddenly grabs a hold of his left wrist and yanks him back towards the front door, and away from the window he’d been staring out of. Argent, unsurprisingly, ignores him, and just presses the leather of Theo’s bracelet to what Theo had absently assumed to be some kind of decorative carving hung on the wall—the apartment furnished—and is now realizing is something else altogether. He stares as the runes marking both the wood of the carving and his bracelet light up, before both objects dim back to quintessence. 

“The hell was that?” He demands, snatching his wrist back when Argent releases it; he covers the bracelet with the fingers of his right hand.

“Think of it as your parole officer,” Argent answers, and then tosses him the ring of keys he’d used to unlock the front door. “It’ll track your comings and goings.”

Theo catches the keys and then narrows his eyes at both Argent, and the innocuous-seeming carving just over his shoulder. “What _else_ can it do?” He wonders suspiciously.

Argent just smiles wanly. “Keep your nose clean, and I won’t have to show you.”

Theo glares at him. Argent smiles wider, and then takes out his wallet before flipping through the cards slotted inside, and removing one. He holds it out.

“For expenses,” he explains.

Theo takes it, more than a little hesitantly. “What, no warning about—whatever, only buying the necessities?”

Argent just looks amused. “It’s tied to Peter’s bank account. Buy yourself caviar and wagyu beef every night if you like.”

He doesn’t linger, after that. Theo closes the door behind him and locks it, and then spends a few seconds staring at the wood carving next to the door. On a whim he reaches forward to try and touch it, and then hisses and jerks his hand back when it sparks, burning the tips of his fingers. 

“Okay,” Theo mutters to himself, holding his singed hand to his chest. “Don’t touch the magical spycam, got it.”

Familiarizing himself with his new apartment takes exactly two minutes, and maybe fifty steps. Theo stands in the doorway to his new bedroom, and then sighs and throws his duffel bag inside. It hits the edge of the bed and slides off, and Theo spends a few seconds just staring at it laying cock-eyed on the ground before abruptly turning on his heel, and heading back for the front door. 

He drives around town, noting the highway entrances and exits; the Sheriff’s station, the nearest hospital. Devenford itself. He stops off at a gas station and buys a fold-out paper map, and spends an hour or so parked under a streetlight in the middle of town, studying the street names—their branching, curving pathways—and then leaves his truck where it is and _walks_ them, his eyes roving and his mind working as he memorizes, and memorizes, and memorizes.

Still, by the time he gets back to his new apartment, groceries in hand— _not_ caviar and wagyu beef—it’s still only ten o’clock. Theo eyes the wooden carving to the side of his door—it’d flared briefly when he’d stepped inside, though subtly enough that Theo had only noticed it because he’d been _looking_ for it—and then exhales out a rough breath, and finishes closing and locking his door behind himself.

The bed in the bedroom is queen-sized, and perfectly serviceable. Theo ignores it entirely and curls himself into the couch, his shitty laptop open in front of him on the coffee table and streaming some mindless serial that Liam had gotten himself addicted to; they’d gotten halfway through one of the episodes the last time Theo was over. 

The current episode finishes and rolls right into the next one. Theo doesn’t notice, because he’d fallen asleep less than ten minutes into the first. When he jerks himself awake sometime later, he finds himself bathed in blue light; his laptop had crashed. 

Groaning, Theo reaches forward and slams the lid shut, and then turns to put his back to it, and curls into an even tighter ball as he squeezes his eyes back shut, and tries to go back to sleep. 

_**Brett** _

“Wow, it—really hasn’t changed at all, has it?” Lori comments quietly as she peers out of the windshield at Devenford.

Brett glances over at her. Her fingers are white-knuckled around her bag in her lap, and her shoulders are hunched far enough in that she’s practically level with the dashboard. “Hey,” Brett murmurs, and reaches over.

He means to put a hand on her shoulder. Where it actually lands is the back of her neck. The touch is gentle but Brett yanks his hand back immediately anyway, and fast enough that he bangs his elbow on his headrest. He hisses out a pained sound.

“Sorry,” Brett mutters, rubbing at his smarting elbow. “I don’t know what—sorry.”

Lori just gives him a wobbly smile. “I think you’re going to have to work on your technique,” she teases, though her voice is a little shaky. “Satomi never flailed that much when she’d pull that move.”

Brett rolls his eyes, and shoves her lightly in the shoulder. “C’mon,” he says, and reaches for his own door handle. “We’re going to be late for class.”

They _are_ late for class, but that’s primarily because when they stop by the office to officially present themselves as _not dead_ , it turns into a hive of over-effusive adults who are just _thrilled_ , who are just _so grateful_ , that Brett and Lori survived the car accident. Brett pastes as sincere a smile on his face as he can and shakes every hand that’s offered—lets his body rock with every hearty backslap or clap on the shoulder—and concentrates on shoving the shift down every time it tries to rise like bile in his throat, because a few feet away, Lori’s scent is going more and more distressed.

“Isn’t that the bell?” Brett finally wonders, loud and with a bit of extra _oomph_ in his voice that he doesn’t realize he’d put there until he sees Lori quickly duck her eyes, hiding them from view as she blinks the sudden gold away from her irises. 

But it works. The principal hustles them out of the office, one hand on Brett’s shoulder and one hand on Lori’s arm. It’s barely even a touch but Brett has to keep his upper lip from curling when he spots it. 

“—need _anything_ , okay?” The principal is saying. “Anything at all.”

“Of course,” Lori agrees, her brow furrowing a bit as she looks at Brett. “Thank—thank you, Principal Capaldi.”

Lori takes his wrist after, and starts dragging him down the hallway. She stops when they turn a corner.

“You okay?” She whispers. She leaves her hand on his wrist.

“Fine,” Brett answers reflexively. Lori still looks dubious so Brett twists his wrist in her grip until he can grasp her hand in turn, give it a little squeeze before letting it go. “What do you have?” He nods at the paper schedule in her hand.

Lori watches him for a few seconds longer, her eyes searching his face, and then she bites her lip and looks down. “Pre-calc,” she answers. “Ugh.”

Brett grins. “Professor Merrill, right? Her classroom is on the other side of campus. You better get going.”

Lori hesitates, but Brett just continues to smile down at her, waiting, and eventually she sighs. She sighs, and rockets forward into him, squeezing him tight in a bone-crushing hug before just as abruptly reversing direction and hurrying off down the hallway. Brett watches her go until she’s out of sight, and then he takes a single step to the side so he can slump against the lockers there, turn his face against the cool metal. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks. His jaw aches from clenching it against the shift. 

Throughout the course of the day he discovers that if he concentrates, if he really stretches out his hearing and _tries_ , he can hear Lori’s heartbeat almost anywhere in the school. It’s buried underneath every other thundering teenage heartbeat and dog-piled beneath the absolute _smog_ of their overly-hormonal scents though, and Brett wonders how he _ever_ managed to set foot in the place before without constantly wanting to pull his shirt up over his nose.

He wonders—the thought rising helplessly and unbidden—how _Satomi_ ever managed to set foot in the place without complaint.

He’s sitting on top of one of several clustered picnic tables when he thinks that. It’s his—and every other Devenford lacrosse player’s—off-period, and Brett vaguely remembers absently looking forward to these after-lunch breaks. These times when he’d sit around with his team and lazily practice catches or throws or drills; when they’d sit around and talk shit about whatever team they were going to face that week, or Agrawal’s newest and increasingly improbable crushes, or—or whatever the hell it’d been. Now, Brett can’t stop wincing; every _thump_ of the ball landing in one of the nets is Lori’s body hitting the asphalt, every rasping breath out of his teammates’ lungs is his own breath scraping loose of his chest as he’d run down those disgusting tunnels, desperate to get away from Monroe.

“—bot. _Talbot_ ,” someone is saying. “Seriously, man. _Brett!_ ”

Brett blinks back to himself, and then has to stop himself from physically recoiling—from _snarling_ —when he catches sight of the hand that Dudek is idiotically waving in front of his face. “What?” He snaps.

Dudek stares at him. “The hell is wrong with you, dude? You’re like a freakin’ zombie.”

“He got hit by a _car_ , Dudek,” Grossman replies in his stead from a few feet away. “How about we run _you_ over with an SUV and see how quickly you bounce back?”

The rest of the team snickers, but Dudek just glares. “Well he’s still the goddamn _captain_ , isn’t he?” He sneers, and then looks back at Brett. “Even comatose you were still Coach’s favorite, and we’ve got the game against Flintridge Friday. We _lose_ , and our chances of winning State are practically _nil_. So maybe you can pull your head out of your ass—or, you know, your _feelings—_ ”

But then he sucks in a startled sound and jerks back an unsteady step, because Brett—without thinking about it, without conscious desire _at all_ —had uncurled himself from the picnic table and climbed to his feet. _What the hell are you doing_ , Brett yells at himself, but it’s like he’s watching his body move from outside himself; detached. 

“Yeah, Dudek?” He finds himself saying, low and saturated with warning. “Is that what you think I should do?”

Dudek’s scent goes _sour_ with anxiety, but he also—his eyes flicking to the rest of their teammates watching the confrontation avidly—doesn’t back down. Instead he pushes forward some, into Brett’s space—which is especially absurd, because he’s half a foot shorter than Brett—and sneers again.

“Either that,” he says, and smirks like his pulse isn’t rabbit-fast—isn’t _prey-fast_ —in Brett’s ears, “or step _back_ , and let someone _better_ take the—”

And then he cuts off, and stumbles back, because someone _shoves_ their way in between him and Brett, and shoulders him away. That same someone also uses their momentum to spin Brett around a little and _jam_ his head down, bending him over, and Brett only realizes _why_ when he realizes—sense reasserting itself at the sudden jarring interruption—that his mouth is full of fangs, and his eyes are flared.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dudek snarls; Brett hears it like it’s coming from the opposite end of a _wind tunnel_. “Who the hell are _you?_ ”

“Friend of Liam Dunbar’s,” Theo Raeken drawls lazily in response, and Brett would jerk to look up at him in complete surprise, except he _can’t_ , because he’s still shifted. “You all remember Liam Dunbar?” Theo wonders, and in such a way that strongly suggests he’s doing it through a smile that’s all teeth.

The tense silence that follows—and the sudden sharp spike in the cloying scent of nervousness—suggests just as strongly that Brett’s teammates are _remembering_ Liam Dunbar as he had been that night at the zoo; the night that they and Brett had hazed— _had kicked the shit out of_ , Brett finds himself helplessly correcting, and squeezes his still-flared eyes shut—Liam after their loss that one game. Theo laughs, low and viciously amused.

“Run along, now,” he orders, falsely sweet. “Or are you deaf in addition to being a complete lemming with no sense of self-preservation? That _was_ the bell.”

There’s a rumble of unhappy muttering, and shifting feet, but after a few long— _long_ —seconds of hesitation, Brett hears it as his teammates slowly clear out, back towards the school. He starts to straighten up but Theo just shoves his head back down again with an irritated sound. “Check your mouth, _dude_ ,” he says, deliberately mocking, “and maybe keep your head down until you can drop the fangs.”

But he almost seems to contradict himself when he suddenly reaches down and gets his shoulders underneath one of Brett’s arms, and hauls him up. Brett bites off a surprised, half-panicked sound and turns his face into Theo’s neck, hiding it as Theo starts leading him, stumbling, across the lawn. 

“What the hell are you even _doing_ here?” Brett hisses.

He can actually _feel_ Theo smirk against his forehead. “Dog-sitting,” Theo answers blandly, and laughs, loud and absolutely uncowed, when Brett gives a weak snarl.

He half-carries, half-drags Brett over to one of the school’s equipment sheds, and breaks the padlock keeping it shut one-handed as he holds Brett up with the other. That done, he shoulders it open, and pulls Brett far enough inside that when Theo dumps him onto the ground, Brett falls into the middle of the shed, and Theo can swing the door back closed. Brett snarls at him again from his hands and his knees, his chest heaving with his half-panted breaths.

Theo just looks down at him with an expression on his face like he’s smelling something foul. “Jesus,” he finally mutters, and looks away as he crosses his arms and leans back against the door. “This is pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” Brett spits out. 

“Not sure you’re up for that right now,” Theo shoots back, and smirks again when Brett glares at him. He holds Brett’s gaze for a few seconds longer, and then he rolls his shoulders and his eyes. “Look, can you just hurry up and— _the sun, the moon, and the truth_ your way out of this little episode? I’m late for Biology.”

“Like you even care,” Brett snaps back.

Theo adopts a hurt expression. “Education is important, Brett,” he says, falsely innocent. Then his lips curl back into their seemingly default, mocking smile. “That’s the reason Satomi made you inheriting all her assets contingent on you graduating after all, isn’t it? Or,” he adds, and cocks his head, “maybe she just knew you weren’t going to be able to handle her abilities.”

Brett lunges for him; he can’t help it. Theo just catches him with a foot flat on his shoulder, his own shoulders braced back on the door, and shoves Brett back. Brett topples backward, his head cracking on the ground. 

“God, what a _waste_ ,” Theo observes, and contrary to his previous comments, this time he actually sounds like he _means it_. “Satomi was one of the most powerful alphas in the _country_. Even the Doctors were afraid to go anywhere near her. And now,” he says, shoving himself off the door and circling around Brett until he can hook the top of his foot underneath Brett’s armpit—Brett having reflexively curled onto his side after he hit the ground—and force him back flat, “all that’s left is _you_.” He stops, and frowns thoughtfully into the middle distance. “And your sister, I suppose.”

Brett snarls again, and strikes out. Theo just snorts, and lifts up the foot he’d used to turn Brett over and _slams_ it down on Brett’s arm; Brett can feel his wrist break. He cries out, and immediately snatches it back, and cradles it against his chest, when Theo lifts his foot.

“Like I said,” Theo tells him, smirking down at him, “ _pathetic_.”

The shift had never really faded, between Theo interrupting his confrontation with Dudek and Theo dragging him into the shed, and it _explodes_ back out of him in a rush as Brett gets his hands and knees back underneath himself, and _surges_ forward for Theo, clawed fingers outstretched. But Theo just twists easily out of the way, and then swings an elbow back to crack against the back of Brett’s ribs as he goes. 

Several of them break; Brett can feel it. 

But he can’t stop. The shift is running hot through his blood, feeling almost like it’s puppeting his muscles, and he just spins back around and makes another lunge at Theo. This time Theo is too slow to dodge, and for a moment Brett feels _victory_ surge through him—feels _bloodlust_ —and then he realizes that Theo hadn’t been _trying_ to dodge; he catches Brett, and pivots him up and over his hip before slamming him down onto the ground. 

He keeps a hold of Brett’s left arm as he goes, though; Brett _shrieks_ as Theo dislocates his shoulder with a single, jerking movement.

But it heals fast— _alpha_ fast, faster than Brett’s ever experienced—and Brett whirls around in a crouch, glaring and snarling at Theo. He can feel his own lips curled back from his fangs, his own claws digging furrows into the dirt below him, and there’s a part of himself that’s absolutely _horrified_ at what he’s doing—at his complete lack of control—but that part is drowned out, shoved aside, _burned away_ by anger, by instinct—by the _shift_ —that feels almost like it’s _consuming_ him.

“C’mon, _Alpha Talbot_ ,” Theo challenges, low and sneered, and flares his eyes. His _gold_ eyes— _beta_ gold—and that’s it; Brett snarls again and lunges for him.

It’s over almost faster than Brett can process it. Theo catches him again, but just enough that he can swing him sideways to interrupt his momentum and send him staggering and stumbling forward. And then _Theo_ moves. He kicks out with one foot against the side of Brett’s knee, snapping it. He snatches one of Brett’s flailing arms as Brett starts to collapse and gets it braced behind his neck as he twists, bending it backwards the wrong way and _breaking_ it. And then, finally, he pivots around and aims a kick so hard at Brett’s lower back that Brett all but _flies_ forward, crashing into a set of metal shelving and cracking several of his ribs again. 

Brett collapses to the floor, barely able to breathe.

Theo stays where he is, staring down at him with his head cocked and his eyes still gold. Then his head jerks up and his eyes narrow as the door to the shed jerks open, and Lori flies through. 

“Brett!” She gasps, and ignores Theo entirely as she slides to her knees at Brett’s side. 

Brett tries to tell her it’s alright, that he can already feel himself healing, but he still can’t get his lungs to work right around the _pain_ suffusing his entire body. She whips around to glare at Theo.

“What the hell did you _do?_ ” She hisses, the sound elongated and made jagged by her sudden mouthful of dropped fangs.

“The effort of healing that much damage should keep the alpha shift at bay for the rest of the day,” Theo answers easily. He flicks his eyes—and blinks away the gold from them as he does it—from Lori to Brett. “You’re welcome.”

He smirks as Lori snarls at him, and doesn’t bother skirting to the side of her as he heads for the door. Lori glares after him until he disappears, and then she looks back down at Brett, her expression crumpling. 

“I’m sorry, Brett,” she whispers, though Brett has no idea what she’s apologizing for. She puts her hands on his arm, her face twisting as she starts to siphon what pain she can from him. “I’m just—I’m so sorry.”

Brett still can’t speak. He lets his head fall back down flat, and squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for his body to finish healing.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Liam** _

Liam stares down at the exam in his hands. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he says blankly, and then flips the paper over like his _actual_ grade might be hidden on the back. “I should have failed this.”

Across the table from him in Beacon Hills High School’s library, Mason frowns and snatches his exam from him. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, it can’t be that—” he starts to say as he does it, and then he cuts himself off as he looks over the paper in his hands and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, nevermind. You _definitely_ should have failed this.”

Corey frowns and plucks Liam’s exam from Mason’s hands in turn. “Why would Mr. Tanner _not_ fail you, if you should have failed?” He wonders.

Liam reaches forward and snatches his exam back, finally. But even as he starts to lean back into his seat he keeps his shoulders hunched low and his head ducked some as he glances around at the other students milling around the library. “Probably,” he says through gritted teeth as he does, “the same reason that all of _them_ ,” he jerks his chin upwards, “won’t stop _looking_ at me.”

Mason grimaces sympathetically at him, and then almost immediately grimaces for real. “Uh, Liam,” he mutters, “you might want to, um.” He mimes shading his eyes with one hand.

Liam has no idea what he’s talking about, until abruptly he does. “ _Shit_ ,” he curses, and drops his gaze down to the table, covering his eyes with one hand and trying to blink away the shift—blink away the _gold_ —from them as he does.

He can’t see the slight frown on Corey’s face but he can hear it in his voice when Corey says, “They’re not still afraid, are they? I thought Scott and Deaton did that thing where they like, checked for lingering Anuk-ite influence or whatever.”

“They’re _not_ afraid,” Liam snaps back, more sharply than he’d intended. He tries to swallow around the pervasive rotten-fruit taste of the scent of guilt stinking up the library, and really can’t. 

Giving up, he drops his hand away from his face and starts shoving his books and things back into his backpack. 

“I’ve got to go, sorry,” he mutters, and leaves Mason and Corey blinking after him as he slams out of the library doors.

It’s too early in the semester for the baseball team to be having outdoor practices, so Liam—after stretching out his hearing to confirm that the team is, in fact, in the weight room—heads to the baseball diamond, and huddles himself back into the stands that border it. The air is chilly hovering just on the edge of _cold_ , but Liam just burrows a little deeper into his jacket and balances his calculus textbook on his knees, and tries to work through the latest assigned set of problems, one at a time. 

_Not that it might matter_ , a petulant voice in his head mutters; Liam grits his teeth, and kicks his backpack, with its should’ve-failed-exam stuffed inside, a little further underneath the bleacher he’s sitting on.

He stays there long enough to finish the last of the problems. He’s in the middle of glancing over them—and absently strategizing what he could bribe Lydia with to get her to spend a half-hour with him on video chat correcting the mistakes he’s no doubt made—when he hears footsteps approaching. He looks up sharply.

“Woah,” Nolan yelps, startling backwards and nearly tripping over his own feet. He manages to catch himself on the bleacher railing. 

Liam realizes he’d reflexively flared his eyes _again_ , and swears as he shakes his head roughly and drops the shift. Then he groans, loud and heartfelt, and folds over his own knees as he covers his face with his hands.

“What, Nolan?” He demands, his voice frustrated and muffled. “If you’re here for some kind of, I don’t know, twelve-step asshole apology tour, then could you just _not_ —”

“Actually, um,” Nolan interrupts, and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. 

He holds up a spiral notebook and wiggles it around a little when Liam uncurls just enough to squint at him through one eye. Liam blinks as he recognizes the lacrosse team’s playbook. 

“Actually I was thinking, um,” Nolan says, and then winces, before pressing onwards. “I was thinking these plays you proposed are kind of terrible, and, you know…”

He trails off, wincing again and ducking his head to look at Liam through one eye, the other squeezed preemptively shut. Liam stares at him. Nolan stares back, and then he takes a deep breath—Liam can _literally_ see him steeling himself—and finally manages to finish a sentence.

“I was thinking we could try and come up with some plays that are, you know, _not_ terrible, before—before Coach sees these at practice later, and—and does what Coach does best,” he says, a little over-loud in his obvious nervousness, and then he flushes bright red and clamps his mouth shut.

Liam finds himself smiling in spite of himself at that, even though the rest of his face is still stuck in a shocked, startled stare. “Freak out, overreact, and make everyone run suicides until _he_ gets too tired watching us to make us keep going?” Liam fills in dryly; Nolan looks as equally surprised by the smile that takes over his own face.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, after a second. “That, really.”

Liam bites his lip. “Yeah,” he agrees finally, and flips his textbook closed. “Yeah, let’s—come up with some non-terrible plays.”

They do, and Coach doesn’t freak out, and Liam is still thinking of even more—even _better_ —tweaks to what he and Nolan came up with, when he starts to cross over the parking area of the current section of Preserve he’s walking along later that night, his hands in his pockets and his head down, and nearly runs directly into the lowered tailgate of Theo’s truck. 

“Jesus _christ_ ,” he swears, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees as he tries to control his suddenly-galloping heartbeat.

Theo—laid back in the bed of his truck, with his arms bent behind his head and his legs dangling over the edge of the tailgate—just looks supremely amused. “Excellent situational awareness,” he notes. “Bravo.”

“Fuck you,” Liam shoots back reflexively, but there’s no heat.

He also, after another moment, straightens up and then circles around until he can hop up onto Theo’s tailgate, too. After _another_ moment, he flops backwards onto his back so that he’s stretched out and mostly mirroring Theo’s posture, though he folds his hands over his stomach instead of crooking them behind his head. 

“What are you doing here?” He wonders, tilting his head so he can look at Theo as he does.

Theo just glances over at him. “I was going to ask _you_ that,” he says, dodging Liam’s question. 

Well-used to that by now, Liam lets it go. He shrugs, but he also doesn’t answer right away; instead he starts picking at his nails over his stomach, his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally he drops his hands again. 

“Patrolling,” he mumbles, and glues his eyes firmly to the night-dark sky above so that he doesn’t have to look at the smirk no doubt taking over Theo’s face. Still, he sees most of it out of the corner of his eye; he scowls. “Monroe is _still out there_ , in case you’ve forgotten,” he snaps, feeling irrationally stung.

“Yeah,” Theo agrees easily, then: “So is the _Sheriff’s station_.”

Liam just snorts. “Fat lot of good that did us last time,” he mutters darkly.

Theo’s smirk reverses direction and becomes a frown. He raises up enough so that he can shift onto his side and brace his head on one elbow, and look down at Liam, clearly studying him. Liam feels his jaw work, and has to fight not to shift uncomfortably under the attention.

“So, what?” Theo probes. “You’re going to hold her and her merry band of murderers off? Just you, here on your one-man patrols, by yourself?”

“Well, what _else_ am I supposed to do?” Liam explodes, and sits up fast enough that Theo and his startled expression have to lean quickly back out of the way to keep them from colliding. “Scott and Argent and the others are off chasing down leads as to where Monroe went, and Stiles and Lydia are back at college, and _you’re_ at Devenford. There’s no one _but_ me!”

He’d whipped around to glare at Theo when he’d said _Devenford_ , and he keeps right on glaring at him—nostrils flaring and chest heaving—after he’s done. Theo just stares back, his expression slack with surprise and his mouth dropped softly open, and then his eyelashes flutter as he blinks several times, and looks away, his bottom lip pulling between his teeth. Liam feels his anger immediately start to drain away, embarrassment flooding in to take its place instead.

But before he can mutter _sorry_ , Theo is suddenly sitting up, too, and hopping down from his tailgate. The embarrassment in Liam’s chest starts to curdle into straight-up _anxiety_ — _he’s mad_ —but then Theo punches him, not gently, in the thigh, and gestures impatiently for him to get down. Liam frowns, but hops down onto his feet. 

“What…?” He starts to ask, but Theo just reaches forward and gets his hands underneath his tailgate so he can lift it up, and slam it back into its locked position. Now _Liam’s_ getting annoyed. “Seriously, Theo, what are you doing?”

But Theo just takes a step back, and spreads his arms wide. The expression on his face could charitably be called _shit-eating_. “Apparently,” he says, “I’m patrolling.”

Liam stares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

Theo shrugs. “What, is it an exclusive position? Are these ‘patrols’ of yours actually just excuses for you to mope around?”

“Oh, fuck _you_ ,” Liam squawks, but the tangled mess in his chest starts to crack, and fall away. He bites his lip. “What about Devenford?” He asks suspiciously, squinting.

Theo shrugs again. “Brett’s fine. I took care of him earlier today.” He turns, and starts walking away towards the path deeper into the Preserve after he’s said it, his hands sliding into his pockets like he hadn’t a care in the world; like he’d already won their—admittedly silly—argument.

“What the hell does _that_ mean…?” Liam wonders, muttering it under his breath. But after another second’s worth of hesitation, he lets it go, and hurries to catch up with Theo. 

He tries to sneak a look at him after he does, but it doesn’t work; Theo’s already looking back. Theo grins, just the tiniest quirk of one corner of his mouth, and Liam—

Liam grins back. 

_**Theo** _

Theo gets back from Beacon Hills, and the Preserve, and Liam and Liam’s _patrol_ , late.

He’s distracted by his phone—Liam never could let an argument go, no matter how idiotic it is—and so he misses the lightswitch when he steps through his apartment door, and slaps out a hand.

What he hits is the carving.

“Fucking _shit_ ,” he swears, jerking reflexively several steps to the side as the carving sparks and flares an immediate, violent blue, _searing_ his hand. 

He spends a few quick seconds just trying to calm his racing heartbeat and sudden bloodstream full of adrenaline, burned hand against his chest, but he can hear the unhappy rumblings of his neighbors and so he grits his teeth and hooks his foot around the other side of the door, and gets it swung shut. He starts to move to lock it, but the light from the carving is still pulsing dangerously and Theo eyes it warily, debating. 

Finally it quiets, the light dying, and Theo reaches hesitantly forward—with his _other_ hand—to quickly flip the lock. Yanking his hand back, he leaves it hovering in front of his chest and then slowly, _slowly_ brings his injured hand forward, setting it in the cup of his first hand and staring down at the damage.

“Damn it,” he grits out. The skin of his palm is a raw, blistered red, and it isn’t healing. _Magical wound_ , he realizes, and silently swears again as he drops his hands and lets his head fall back on a rough exhale.

His phone is on the floor where he’d unintentionally dropped it, buzzing away angrily to itself as Liam continues to text, oblivious. After a beat Theo crouches down and scoops it up with his uninjured hand, and spends a few seconds just like that, balanced up on the balls of his feet and resting on his haunches, as he reads Liam’s messages. He can’t help smirking as he does, no matter the throbbing of his injured hand held to his chest, and eventually he snorts a laugh and straightens back up as he starts to head towards the apartment’s bedroom, laboriously pecking out a reply one-handed as he goes.

He doesn’t have any bandages—he ordinarily wouldn’t _need_ them—so in the end he sacrifices one of his clean white shirts, and tears a few strips off of it so he can wrap it around his blistered palm. In the stark light of the bathroom as he’s looping the fabric around his hand, Theo can see that the damage _is_ healing, just abominably slowly; he flexes his fingers a few times, testing, and then sighs roughly and finishes securing the makeshift bandage.

Stepping back out into the hallway, Theo hesitates. His pillow and the comforter from the bed are still out on the couch, but the bedroom is closer to Brett and Lori’s apartment across the street. He drums the fingers of his uninjured hand against his thigh, and then turns for the bedroom. 

Brett and Lori are asleep, unsurprisingly, as far as Theo can tell. Lori’s heartbeat is fast— _nightmare_ —and Brett’s would be alarmingly slow if he wasn’t an alpha, and Theo listens to the off-rhythm chorus of their pulses for some time before eventually letting himself fall flat on his back from where he’d perched himself on the edge of his nearly-bare mattress. The sheets still smell faintly like whatever laundry detergent the landlord had used to wash them last, and Theo lets his eyes slip shut as he breathes in the scent, his exhaustion taking over; in the silence of the apartment he can hear his own heartbeat pounding alongside Lori’s alongside Brett’s, a hypnotic sort of white noise.

He wakes up in a cold sweat sometime later. 

He comes awake gasping, jackknifing upwards and with his hands already flailing outward in a reflexive, useless defense; he flails hard enough that he actually twists himself off the bed, and crashes down to the ground in a tangle of his own limbs. The shock of hitting the floor is more jarring than painful, and it helps cut through the last, lingering dregs of Theo’s nightmare; he presses his face against the carpet as he pants.

And then he _shivers_.

Theo stiffens. “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no. _C’mon_ ,” he moans, but it’s too late; he shivers again, and this time violently enough that his muscles jerk and judder, and his head cracks back against the metal bedframe behind himself. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Theo jams his head back against the frame, purposefully this time, once and then again, and then he climbs painfully and unsteadily to his feet. His shivering worsens as he goes, and he ends up tripping back down onto his hands and one knee; he hisses as he lands on his still-injured palm, and presses his mouth—his lips ice-cold—to his forearm as he tries to breathe through the pain.

The bathroom is maybe fifteen feet down the hallway but it still takes Theo a distressingly long amount of time to get himself there, Theo staggering and stumbling and eventually bracing himself against the wall so he can all but _slide_ along it, one shoulder and one hand set hard against it. He collapses onto his knees once he gets through the doorway, the shivering bad enough now that he can barely control his own limbs, and it takes him three flailing tries to reach out and get the shower started. His vision is blurry enough that he can barely see the handles to adjust the temperature, trying to get it—his violently trembling fingers jerking the handles too far one way, and then too far the other—lukewarm.

“Fuck, _please_ ,” he can’t help but plead, unsure who or what he’s even _asking_ , and finally manages to get the temperature good enough, crumpled against the edge of the tub and with his head leaned up against the tile.

He doesn’t bother—he couldn’t even if he wanted to, he’d learned by brutal experience—taking his clothes off before climbing inside. And it really is _climbing_ ; he barely manages to shove the shower curtain out of the way as he leans forward enough that he can slide along his stomach and half-fall, half-collapse into the bottom of the tub.

Even the lukewarm water feels like it’s _burning_ against Theo’s frigid skin, and he curls into a tight, sodden ball as he shivers, and shivers, and shivers through it. His injured hand starts to throb as his makeshift bandage soaks through and Theo does his best to hide it against his chest, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to breathe through the spasms that wrack his body, one after another, fast and brutal. 

But the frequency of them starts to slow, the longer he stays under the water. After a while Theo can finally unlock his stiff muscles and start to uncurl some, until he can reach forward for the shower handles, and bit by bit start increasing the temperature. He keeps it up until the water really _is_ burning against his skin, the hot water turned up as high as it can go. Sat up, now, Theo braces his elbows on his bent knees, his head ducked low as the water pours across his scalp and down his face, and breathes through the last of his shaking, shuddering shivers.

The fabric over his burned hand is translucent with water. Theo reaches forward and pulls it off, headless of the way that the drag of the wet cloth against his raw skin is _agonizing_. More than that—it splits open some of the blisters still marring his palm.

Theo barely feels it. He watches the blisters ooze for a few seconds, the mess mixing with the water, and then he clenches his fist shut—his skin pulling more, and ripping the blisters open further—and lets himself fall back flat against the bottom of the tub. His head cracks against the ceramic and the water is going colder and colder against his sodden shirt over his chest as the hot water starts to run out. 

Theo just closes his eyes, and doesn’t move.

_**Brett** _

Brett makes it through the rest of the school week without requiring any more _interventions_ on Theo Raeken’s behalf. But the night of his first game back, he’s half-bent over one of the sinks in the locker room, his fingers—perfectly human, though Brett can’t say that he doesn’t feel his claws prickling at the tips of his nails—wrapped around the porcelain, when he hears footsteps outside in the hallway. 

“Jesus, Dudek,” Brett snaps unthinkingly. “I said I’d be out in a minute.”

But it’s not Dudek who answers.

“Maybe,” Theo says, “Dudek is as skeptical as I am that you’re going to be able to hold your shit together out there tonight.”

He’s practically _sauntering_ as he finishes coming into the main body of the room, and leans against one set of lockers; Brett glares at him in the reflection of the mirror in front of the sink. Theo just smirks, unfazed, and crosses his arms loosely over his chest; the very picture of ease.

“Seriously, though,” he adds. “If I have to set fire to the library or something to distract from you causing a massive scene, I’m going to be pissed.”

“Well, god knows I live to keep you from having your delicate sensibilities disturbed,” Brett sneers, and straightens up. He tries to focus on straightening out his uniform and other equipment, too, but it doesn’t stop him from being able to feel Theo’s eyes on his back.

He can guess what Theo’s doing. It’s the same thing that _Satomi_ used to do, back when Brett was like, _thirteen_ ; checking his pulse, his scent, the pace of his breathing. Checking to see how close the shift is to the surface of Brett’s skin; to bursting _out_ of his skin. Brett feels his pulse kick up in annoyance, and then almost immediately catches himself with a silent curse.

He doesn’t have to see it to know that Theo’s smirk had just widened.

“You know what I don’t understand,” Brett observes, keeping his voice forcefully steady even as he reaches for his left glove—set on the shelf in front of the sink—and yanks it on, pulling the velcro strap probably _too_ tight before slapping it down, “is why you even agreed to _dog-sit_ at all.”

He looks up at Theo in the mirror just in time to see Theo’s expression slam shut, the smirk dropping away from his face. A muscle in the corner of Theo’s jaw jumps.

“I didn’t,” he answers tightly, “have a whole lot of choice.”

Brett snorts, and picks up his other glove as he turns around. He doesn’t put it on, though, just tucks it under his left arm as he wheels around to face Theo. Theo doesn’t move as he approaches, but the line of his shoulders gets tighter and tighter, his eyes wary and narrowing. Brett stops in front of him, and this time it’s _him_ who smirks at _Theo_.

“Why?” He replies. “Because of this?”

He reaches forward fast enough, and apparently unexpectedly enough, that he manages to hook his fingers in the bracelet around Theo’s left wrist before Theo can react. It means that when Theo _does_ attempt to jerk away, he jerks Brett’s hand with him; Brett loops his fingers deeper around the strip of leather, and smirks wider as he gives it a deliberate, mocking tug. 

His eyes are red as he does; he can feel it.

“I know what this is,” he tells Theo, and tugs again. “It’s a favorite of some of the Western hunter clans. They use them to _leash_ ,” he lets the word roll around his mouth, savoring it and the way it makes Theo’s upper lip start to curl up in a silent snarl, “supernaturals that have fucked up in some way, and are on the hunter version of probation.”

Theo attempts to rip his wrist free. Brett doesn’t let him, just tightens his fingers around the bracelet so that it’s pulled _taut_ against Theo’s skin. It leaves the back of his knuckles digging _hard_ into the flesh of Theo’s wrist; Brett can feel Theo’s pulse beating fast against the back of his fingers.

“Why ask the question, then?” Theo snarls, low and burring with threat; Brett can feel the tendons of Theo’s forearm jumping as Theo flexes and relaxes the fingers of his trapped hand. 

“Because you having agreed to wear this at all doesn’t make sense,” Brett replies easily; Theo’s eyes narrow.

“You think Argent gave me a _choice?_ ” Theo hisses. He’d given up on trying to rip his hand away but he’s still vibrating with tension.

“I think,” Brett starts to murmur, stepping closer to Theo to crowd him back against the bank of lockers. 

He doesn’t fully understand what he’s doing, or why; he just understands the _satisfaction_ —low and curling itself into a tight ball in his gut—of finally having Theo look _up_ at him like he is, fierce and glaring but stepping back when Brett does, letting Brett half-pin him to the locker behind him; letting Brett hold his captured hand in the air just to the side of their near-touching chests. 

“I think that you slipped loose of Argent’s and McCall’s grip after the Wild Hunt, no problem,” Brett tells him, finishing his hanging thought. “Which means you sticking around this time to let yourself get _collared_ ,” he tugs pointedly on the bracelet around Theo’s wrist again, “like this? That was a _choice_.”

“Fuck you,” Theo snaps.

“You sure you’re up for that right now?” Brett shoots back, deliberately echoing Theo’s words from a few days ago, when it’d been _Theo_ stood over a half-helpless Brett and mocking.

Theo’s eyes flash gold. Brett feels adrenaline bolt up his spine in reflexive warning, but it’s too late; Theo suddenly _moves_ , and Brett’s hunched over, gasping, with Theo out from between Brett and the locker, before Brett can fully absorb what he’d done. Theo glares down at him, his hands not _quite_ curled into fists, but the knuckles crooked dangerously with the threat of claws. But Brett just laughs, a little high—a little giddy—on Theo’s sharp scent; the bite of it only getting sharper, and sharper, in Brett’s nose.

“What I don’t get,” Brett continues, goading; he straightens up as he says it, and smiles at Theo with all teeth, “is why you _made_ that choice. Is it McCall?” He wonders, cocking his head and feeling his adrenaline—and his sharp-edged _delight_ —kick up as Theo’s nostrils flare, and his mouth twists further. But: “No,” Brett corrects himself slowly, considering. “No, it’s not _McCall_.”

He laughs, loud and braying, even as Theo takes a threatening step forward.

“ _Jesus_ , Raeken,” Brett says. “Does Dunbar even _know_ he’s carrying your balls around in his lacrosse bag?”

Theo snaps his teeth, his mouth now full of fangs. “Careful, _Talbot_ ,” he snarls back. “I already kicked your ass once. You want me to do it again?”

Brett just smirks at him, honey-slow. “You sure you _could?_ ” 

He’s expecting more anger, more blustering. He’s expecting, he realizes later, Theo to act like _Liam_ : more balls than sense. 

But Theo isn’t Liam.

“You want to know the problem with alphas?” Theo asks him, and the sudden glacial _calm_ to his voice should be a warning. 

It _is_ a warning, but Brett’s too high on his own adrenaline and the shift slouching restlessly under his skin to react to it properly. He holds his ground as Theo takes the few steps forward he needs to bring them back together. Brett just smirks down at him, already opening his mouth to say _what?_ , low and smooth and amused, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Whatever Theo does, he does it fast enough that Brett doesn’t get the chance to react. Brett hits his hands and knees on a stunned gasp and then finds that he can’t _breathe_ ; whatever Theo had done, he’d shocked Brett’s lungs long enough to paralyze them for a handful of slow, agonizing seconds. Brett barely feels several of his snapped ribs knitting back together over the sudden clanging _anxiety_ in his head as he tries to suck in air, and can’t.

But he jerks to look upwards a second later; he has to, because Theo winds a hand in his hair and yanks his head up. Theo smirks down at him, and then leans down to put his mouth right next to Brett’s ear.

“They always know they’re alphas,” Theo breathes, answering his own question. 

He smirks again, wider, against the shell of Brett’s ear, and then he shoves Brett’s head away, and straightens. As he does Brett finds that his healing has kicked in or whatever Theo had done is wearing off, and he can breathe again; he gasps in several deep, shaky breaths.

Theo had already turned for the door. “Good luck out there tonight,” he offers breezily over his shoulder, and then pushes his way out of the locker room doors.

Brett stares after him, his chest still heaving, his fingers curving into claws and digging furrows into the floor below him, into his left glove. 

His eyes are red again. They’re _burning_ red.

_**Liam** _

What Liam knows about proper police procedure couldn’t fill a post-it, but he’s still surprised when he gets to the station early Saturday morning and finds it buzzing with activity.

“Hey,” Parrish greets when Liam slips inside. Liam has to dodge a pair of deputies whose arms are laden with boxes as he goes, and winds up holding the doors open for them almost by reflex as they mutter a _thanks_ and hurry past him. When he looks back at Parrish, Parrish’s brow is furrowed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Liam hurries to say, wincing. “Fine. Everything is, uh.” He cuts himself off, realizing that his rambling is doing the _opposite_ of convincing Parrish’s increasingly skeptical expression. He grimaces apologetically and finally just asks, “Is, uh. Is the Sheriff here?”

The Sheriff _is_ at the station, thankfully, and cocooned in his office surrounded by a flurry of paperwork; it looks like a tornado hit, and scattered unusually-tidy stacks of documents everywhere. Liam blinks at the chaos.

The Sheriff notices him in the doorway almost immediately. “Hey, Liam,” he says, already sounding harried and now on the verge of sounding _concerned_. “Is everything—”

“Fine,” Liam hurries to cut him off, before the Sheriff can finish asking _is everything okay_. “It’s—it’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…whatever this is.” He tips his chin at the nest of paperwork that the Sheriff is sitting inside of, like the eye in the middle of a bureaucratic hurricane.

The Sheriff grimaces. “Emergency hearing.” He sighs heavily. “Apparently the former county prosecutor got a little overexcited with one of his last cases and violated—” He must catch the blank look on Liam’s face; his lips quirk up, amused. “Nevermind. But,” he adds, giving Liam an apologetic look, “it does mean that I have to get to the courthouse, and will probably be there all day. Did you need…?”

He leaves the question hanging; a prompt. Liam colors. “Um,” he says, feeling _beyond_ foolish, now. _God_ , what had he been thinking? “Ah, well. I was just wondering if…I just wanted to _see_ if,” he winces, one eye squinting closed, “if you had any more information about the—the hunt for Monroe.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrow as he studies Liam’s face. “No,” he answers slowly. “Not any more than what Scott told us—” he puts a deliberate emphasis on that _us_ “—a few days ago. Liam,” he says, apparently catching Liam’s flinch. His tone is easy, gentle; understanding. It makes Liam flinch again. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Liam hurries to say, and fast enough that he’s almost saying it _on top of_ the Sheriff’s question. “Nothing, I just…” He doesn’t finish.

The Sheriff studies him for a few seconds longer, and then he sighs, and glances sideways. Or not _sideways_ , Liam realizes; he’s glancing at something on his desk. Liam follows his eyeline, and feels his pulse kick up.

But then his attention gets jerked back to the Sheriff as the Sheriff picks his way carefully forward, and sets his hands on Liam’s shoulders. “Look,” he tells him quietly. “I know it’s frustrating being stuck here, while Scott and the others are out _there_ looking for Monroe and her people. But what you’re doing is important, too. You know that, right?” He double-checks, ducking to catch Liam’s eyes when Liam drops them guiltily. “Finishing school, and graduating. That’s _important_.”

“I know,” Liam assures him quickly, doing his best to give him a reassuring smile. It comes out flimsy, and flagging. “I know that. I do, I swear.” 

The Sheriff lets his eyes rove over Liam’s face for a few more seconds, and then he quirks him an equally small, sympathetic smile. “Okay,” he agrees quietly, and claps him gently on the shoulders, then: “Okay!” He repeats, more brightly, and turns back towards his little towers of paperwork. “Maybe you can help me carry some stuff on your way out, then, huh?” He suggests, though it’s as much an order—a silent dismissal—as anything; Liam nods, and stands still while the Sheriff loads him up with boxes of paperwork.

But he also hangs back, when the Sheriff heads for the door with his own armful of boxes, his eyes flicking nervously to the Sheriff’s desk; he bites his lip.

Five minutes later, he waves the Sheriff and Parrish off—the back seat of the Sheriff’s cruiser _and_ trunk filled to bursting with boxes—and then he climbs hurriedly into his SUV and pulls the manila folder out from underneath his zipped-up jacket, letting it spill onto the passenger seat like contraband. He hesitates for a second, but then he reaches forward and flips it open; a candid shot of Monroe stares up at him, and he slaps it immediately back shut. 

Turning back forward, Liam stares sightlessly out of the windshield for a few seconds, and then he lets his head fall forward against the steering wheel with a heartfelt, “ _Shit_.”

And then he wrestles his phone out of his pocket.

_**Theo** _

Theo is still asleep when Liam calls. 

He slaps out a hand until he can grab his vibrating phone from off of the coffee table, and somehow manages to answer it without accidentally hanging up instead. “Someone,” he warns croakily, his voice sleep-rough and burring, “had better be _dying_.”

Liam seems to skip right over his tone. “I need your help,” he explains, all in a breathy rush.

Theo comes _immediately_ awake. He sits up on the couch, the blanket falling to his waist. “Wait,” he says, his hand going _tight_ around his phone. “ _Is_ someone dying?”

“What?” Liam answers, but he sounds confused, not life-or-death panicked. “No!” He denies heatedly a split-second later, apparently having spooled the conversation back through his head and located the context of Theo’s question. “No, I just…I just did something stupid, and I need you to help me fix it.”

Theo frowns at the blank wall of his apartment. “You did _what_ stupid?”

Liam just makes a frustrated groan, and loud enough that Theo has to yank his phone away from his ear. “I’ll tell you when you _get_ here,” he shoots back, speaking all in a rush. “Just—just _get_ here!”

Theo gives his own frustrated groan, but. 

_But_.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he tells Liam, and hangs up.

Liam is pacing around the parking area of one of the lesser-used areas of the Preserve when Theo pulls up. Theo rolls his eyes, and parks his truck, and steps out. “What the hell is with this location, Liam? We look like we’re trying to complete a drug deal,” he calls as he walks over.

Liam just jumps about a mile in the air, and then he suddenly lunges forward to shove—to shove a _manila folder_ into Theo’s arms. Theo bites off a surprised sound and brings his hands up to catch it as it starts to open and threatens to spill its contents everywhere, and he and Liam spend a few seconds with their arms tangled, just trying to get the thing back in order. 

Finally Liam steps back, his bottom lip nearly bitten bloody between his teeth and his body apparently wracked through with so much nervousness that he’s literally bouncing on his toes. Theo squints at him, and then looks down at the now—relatively—orderly file in his hands.

“ _This_ is your goddamn emergency?” He asks incredulously, and looks back up at Liam in outrage. “A _file folder?_ ”

“It’s _Monroe’s_ file folder,” Liam hisses back, sounding strained. Then he seems to catch his own wording and corrects, “I mean it’s the _Sheriff’s_ file folder _on_ Monroe, it’s—whatever!” He concludes, gesturing wildly. “I need you to help me put it _back_.”

“Back _where?_ ” Theo demands, leaning back out of the way of Liam’s flailing.

“Back in the _Sheriff’s office_ ,” Liam replies, glaring at him like he thinks Theo is being deliberately obtuse. “Where _else?_ ”

“What do you mean, _where else?_ ” Theo starts to snap back, irritated. “How the hell should _I_ know—” He cuts himself off, sucking in a deep breath; one of them was going to have to keep it together or they’d never get anywhere, and that one _clearly_ wasn’t going to be Liam. “If you need to put it back in the Sheriff’s office, here’s an idea—just _go to the Sheriff’s office_ and _put it back_.”

Liam just stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “I _can’t_ ,” he wails. “They’ll—they’ll wonder what I’m _doing_ there!”

Theo feels his expression scrunch up with confusion. “So?” He presses. “Just tell them you took the file, and now you’re bringing it back.”

“No!” Liam immediately gasps, like Theo just suggested he set _fire_ to the station, or something equally outlandish. “What? No! They’ll tell the _Sheriff_.”

“Again,” Theo starts to say, but he doesn’t get a chance to say _so?_ , because Liam jerks his hands up and mimes strangling Theo, and then yells, “ _Just help me put it back!_ ”

“Jesus!” Theo shouts in return, leaning away from Liam as his overly enthusiastic shadow-murder of Theo leads to him nearly clocking Theo in the face with his jerking fingers. “Fine!”

It’s stupidly simple for Theo to put the file back, no matter that Liam spends the whole drive to the station in the passenger seat of his truck hissing his peanut-gallery opinions on how terrible Theo’s plan is. He leaves Liam fuming in his truck, and walks into the station with the file in his hands, and when Nyugen gives him a curious look from the station’s front desk, he holds it up.

“Argent asked me to drop this off for the Sheriff,” Theo tells Nyugen, who shrugs and waves him onward.

He’s back outside and opening up the driver’s side door of his truck within two minutes. “Well?” Liam demands, still hissing it out quiet like he’s afraid that the Sheriff might be crouched in Theo’s truck bed or something, listening. Theo just rolls his eyes and gets the engine started. 

“File replaced, no one the wiser,” he tells Liam, and then ignores Liam’s flabbergasted expression as he concentrates on backing out of his parking spot, and getting them turned out of the station’s lot. 

“I can’t believe that worked,” Liam comments blankly, and then squints at Theo like he thinks Theo might be _lying_ about it having worked. 

Theo just shrugs. “Act suspiciously, and people get suspicious. _Don’t_ act suspiciously…” He says, pointedly leaving the thought hanging, and Liam rolls his eyes, scoffing, but he also flushes. Theo grins. He also taps a finger against the stack of photocopied pages sitting between them. “What do you want to do with these?”

Liam bites his lip; Theo watches him do it, half his attention on the road, and half on Liam. After a second Liam reaches forward, and picks up the stack of papers, flipping through the copies of the Sheriff’s file one slow flick of his fingers at a time. 

“Let’s go to your place,” he suddenly suggests, and looks over at Theo. “We can—we can look over it there, you know, without…without having to worry about anyone seeing.”

Theo feels his brow furrow. He stares at Liam, his eyes on Liam’s face—on the pulse beating away in the dip of his collarbone, revealed by the v-neck of his shirt—and his nostrils flaring. Liam gives him a strange look, and then it slackens with irritation and he pointedly stabs a hand down on the controls for his door’s window, lowering it and sending his scent slip-streaming out into the now-open air. Theo feels his own expression go dry, and unimpressed, but he stops trying to pick out whatever Liam’s refusing to tell him from Liam’s scent and body language, and just reaches up to retrieve the pair of sunglasses he’d slipped over the sunshade.

“Fine,” he says, as he flicks them on and takes the next left to get them headed towards the highway. “But you’re buying me lunch to make up for this idiocy.”

They order pizza when they get back to Theo’s apartment, which Liam pays for with two crumpled twenties that he pulls from his pocket, and eat it hunched over the photocopies they’d spread throughout the floor of Theo’s living room, trying and failing not to drip sauce onto the papers.

“Shit,” Liam mutters at one point, and holds his current slice of pizza aloft in one hand while he reaches forward with his other to swipe at a splatter of sauce on a picture of Monroe and two of her lieutenants caught on some truck stop surveillance footage. Theo smirks, looking back down at the papers in front of himself as Liam sticks his sauce-covered finger in his mouth to clean it.

“I guess this makes sense,” he murmurs after a while, and slides one of the sheets closer to himself as he looks at the names listed, some with angry little series of _????_ after them. “She’s trying to make contact with some of the other hunter clans.”

“What?” Liam replies, and crawls quickly over so that he can all but lean against Theo’s side, and look where he’s looking. “What do you mean?”

Theo points to a handful of the names, ignoring the way that Liam forms one long line of heat down his side. “See these?” He says, glancing at Liam to check that he’s following along. “They’re the names of some of the other hunter clans in the western United States. These ones are Montana-based,” he offers, pointing at a specific name. 

Liam frowns. “Isn’t that dangerous for her to do? I thought Argent reached out to all his hunter contacts and like, blacklisted Monroe and her people.”

Theo shrugs and hums noncommittally. “He did. But not all the clans approach hunting the same way the Argents do. Some are a little more, uh,” he stops, trying to think how to phrase it, “a little more _we hunt those who_ might _hunt us_ , than the more traditional version.”

Understanding dawns over Liam’s face. “Oh,” he says, his voice suddenly sounding small. His scent tanks, and there’s no window for him to lower this time to try and hide it. “You think it’ll…you think it’ll work?”

_Yes_ , Theo thinks immediately. “I don’t know,” he says aloud, then: “It’s good that Scott and the others figured out what she’s doing, though. That should—that should help.”

Liam doesn’t look satisfied; he rocks back on his heels, and then even further back until he drops heavily onto his sit-bones. Theo frowns at him.

“Did Scott not tell you all this?” He wonders. “I thought you all had a meeting a few days ago.”

Liam blanches, looking suddenly guilty. “No, he _did_ ,” he disagrees. “He _did_ ,” Liam insists, though Theo wonders who he’s trying to convince. “I mean, maybe not in this level of _detail_ , but…” He trails off.

Theo studies him. “Liam,” he finally says. Liam glances over at him. “Why were you so determined not to let anyone find out you took the file?”

Liam colors, and glances away. He also pulls his knees up to his chest, and drops his chin on top of them, his arms wrapping around his legs. “I don’t know,” he finally says, but it’s clear he _does_ know. He sighs. After another few seconds he says, “It’s just, Scott, he. He’s been trying really hard not to—to keep me and Mason and Corey _out_ of it, exactly, but—but to _protect us_ from it, I guess. To try and shield us from it.” He sighs again, and digs his chin a little harder into his knees. “I think he thinks he like, ruined our lives, or something, with all the—the supernatural _whatever_ that he—he feels like he’s responsible for.”

He digs his chin hard enough against his knees that it winds up sliding down, so that he’s digging his forehead against his knees instead. 

“He wants us to have the chance to have a normal senior year, I think,” he mutters, his voice muffled enough by his turtled-up posture that Theo actually has to sharpen his hearing to hear him. “A normal _life_ ,” he adds, or corrects, and even more quietly; Theo almost misses it altogether.

Theo doesn’t know what to say, so finally he just says, “Okay,” quiet and even. Liam snorts a quiet laugh, and tilts his head so that he can look at Theo.

“I don’t want to disappoint him,” Liam confesses. He laughs again, just as humorlessly, and turns his face back to his knees as he scrubs his forehead and the bridge of his nose against his jeans. “I don’t—he’s trying so hard, and he’s already sacrificed so much for—for us,” _for me_ , Theo hears, even though Liam doesn’t say it, “and I just…don’t want to disappoint him.”

He leaves his face buried against his legs once he’s finished speaking, and Theo finds himself grateful for it; he doesn’t know what he’d do if Liam looked up, and saw the expression on Theo’s own face. Finally Theo jerks and blinks a few times, and looks down as he pokes aimlessly at the papers in front of him.

“Well,” he eventually offers. “Well, at least now, if the Sheriff _does_ realize his file went briefly missing, _I’ll_ be his most likely suspect.” He grins—a little shakily, though he tells himself it isn’t—when Liam glances over at him, brow furrowed. “And christ knows what else they could do to me at this point.” He raises his braceleted left wrist, and gestures around his apartment, including at the deceptively innocuous-looking carving by the door.

Liam laughs, quiet and a little choked-sounding. “Sorry about that,” he says, and then something seems to occur to him. “Oh, I—I never thanked you for coming to help me.”

Theo just looks away. “Yeah, you did,” he counters, and starts gathering up the spread-out papers so he can organize them back into a neat stack. He offers it to Liam when he’s done. “You bought me lunch.”

Liam doesn’t exactly look satisfied, but he takes the file nonetheless. He also unshells, some, letting his knees splay outwards until he’s sitting cross-legged instead of in a little ball. He bites his lip as he tips the stack of papers back and forth in his hands. Finally he sets them aside.

“Well, um. Sorry for interrupting your plans for the day, anyway,” he presses, though he addresses the apology mostly to his hands tangled together in his lap.

Theo snorts. “ _What_ plans?” He tips his chin towards the side of his apartment; to Brett and Lori’s apartment across the way. “I’ve got to stay here and keep an eye on our recently-promoted friend. It’s not like I was going to do much else but sit around and, who knows, maybe watch the season finale of—” 

He realizes his mistake just as Liam’s eyes start to go comically wide, his expression outraged. “You’re on the _season finale?!_ ” He all but shrieks, his arms flying up as he says it, like his insulted tone just isn’t enough to convey the absolute _betrayal_ of Theo’s actions. “But we were only on like, episode _three_.”

Theo stares at him. “What do you mean, _we?_ I didn’t realize we had some kind of like, pact—”

“It’s an unspoken pact!” Liam interrupts shrilly, like it’s galling that Theo doesn’t know this. “That’s like, how watching a show with someone _works_. You don’t—you don’t keep watching on your _own!_ ”

“You’re _insane_ ,” Theo tells him, but Liam isn’t listening anymore. He’s up on his hands and knees, searching around the living room. At one point he literally _lifts_ the comforter still on the couch—Theo feels a flare of panic, but Liam doesn’t comment on its presence—and looks underneath it. “Where’s your laptop?” He demands. “We’ve got to—we’ve got to correct this _grievous injustice_.”

“‘Grievous injustice,’” Theo repeats incredulously, and then bites off a surprised sound and shells up when Liam pelts him with one of the couch’s throw pillows. “Ow, jesus!”

“Your _laptop_ ,” Liam insists, and hefts another pillow threateningly.

“ _Fine_ ,” Theo snaps, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine, just stop—stop wrecking my living room.” He heads towards the kitchen to go retrieve said laptop from where he’d been idly browsing the Internet last night while eating a bowl of cereal.

When he gets back, Liam has literally cocooned himself in the comforter and is glaring balefully up at Theo from his perch on the couch. Theo rolls his eyes, but he sits down next to Liam and gets his laptop open, and starts navigating over to Netflix. 

The whole effort winds up being mostly wasted: Liam falls asleep halfway through the fourth episode, still cocooned up in Theo’s comforter and curled up in a tight ball on the other end of the couch. Theo watches him for a few long— _long_ —seconds, and then he slowly reaches forward, and pauses the show. 

He’ll watch something else, he decides—navigating to some other random show that looks vaguely interesting based on its cover art—if only to avoid a repeat of Liam’s histrionics. He starts the new show and leans back against the couch, sneaking another look at Liam as it starts to play.

Liam barely stirs, so Theo—settles back into the couch, and doesn’t really, either. 

_**Brett** _

Theo pulls open the door to his apartment a leisurely fifteen or so seconds after Brett initially knocks; Brett can hear him inside taking his sweet time responding.

“Oh, Brett, _hello_ ,” he greets, his voice full of mock-surprise. He drops it quickly, though, and smirks at him over the top of the bowl of pasta he goes back to eating. “Took you goddamn long enough,” he adds, and leaves the door open as he turns back for the body of his apartment; Brett has to tamp down the immediate, instinctive snarl that starts to curl his lips as he stares at Theo’s back.

“McCall and Argent were really that paranoid that I was going to lose it?” Brett snaps, following him inside and slamming the door shut behind him; Theo shoots him a dirty look at the noise. 

But then he just shrugs. “Argent’s a planner.”

He’d finished eating his pasta while Brett had fumed; he heads to the kitchen and sets his bowl in the sink with what is _probably_ a deliberately-loud clatter, and then braces his hands back against the counter behind himself as he turns, and smirks at Brett. Brett glares at him.

“And if I said I wanted you to _leave?_ ” He snarls out. It’s two steps removed from being a _growl_ , the shift starting to claw its way up Brett’s throat, his vocal cords.

Theo just tips his head and makes a mock-considering face. “Not really up to you,” he finally concludes, and goes back to smirking.

Brett stares at him for a moment. The way Theo’s apartment is laid-out, the living room and kitchen are part of the same big room, separated only by a three-quarters boxed in square of chest-high counters. It means that Brett can see Theo perfectly, lounging back against the counter in the kitchen, even though he’s still standing by the front door. It means that when _Brett_ smirks in turn, he can tip his head sideways at the carving hanging innocuously next to the jamb.

“Not really up to _you_ either, seems like,” he points out, and feels a vicious flare of satisfaction in his chest when Theo’s expression twists with annoyance.

“So take it up with Scott, then,” he spits out, and turns away from Brett to screw with something on the counter behind him. “ _Bye_ , Brett,” he adds pointedly, when Brett doesn’t leave.

But the bite of Theo’s irritation in his nose causes adrenaline to start to slip into Brett’s veins. It piques his interest, and makes him want to pick and pry at Theo’s rough edges, the _exact_ same way that Theo has picked and pried at Brett’s each and every single time they’ve interacted. He steps deeper into the apartment.

Theo just turns his head to glare at him as Brett comes up behind him. He keeps his hands braced wide on the counter; Brett can see out of the corner of his eye as his knuckles go white as Theo digs his fingertips harder against the fake granite. “Brett,” Theo warns, low and dangerous, but that just causes the adrenaline—the sharp-edged _interest_ —in Brett’s blood to kick up further. He leans against the counter at Theo’s side, close enough that his chest is _just_ brushing Theo’s bracing arm.

And then he catches sight of what Theo had been messing with; he stares. 

“What the hell,” he says, blinking, and straightens up as some of his taunting demeanor falls away, replaced by blank surprise. “Are you _leaving?_ ” He demands, reaching _over_ Theo for the cheap, fold-out map spread-out on the counter in front of him.

Theo blocks him. “I thought we _literally_ just discussed this,” he snaps, shouldering Brett back away from the map.

“Shut up,” Brett snaps back. “You know what I meant.” Theo had successfully forced him back a step when he’d moved but Brett digs in his heels after, which leaves them pressed Theo’s shoulder to Brett’s chest, and then even _more_ so as Brett deliberately leans around him to get a finger on the edge of the map, and start sliding it towards himself.

Theo slams a hand—a _clawed_ hand—down on his wrist, stopping him. His mouth is full of fangs when he bares his teeth at Brett in a clear warning.

The adrenaline from before is back and burning up Brett’s bloodstream, only now it’s not just a rush of schoolkid _taunting_ that Brett feels; the alpha shift starts slouch restlessly under his skin. “What are all of these?” He asks, though it’s really more of a demand. He taps a finger against the nearest of the _X’s_ on Theo’s map.

But Theo just snarls back, “None of your goddamn business.”

The alpha shift surges _higher_ , more intensely, against Brett’s blood and bones and muscles, wanting _out_. Brett resists _most_ of it, but not all; he doesn’t let his eyes flare or his mouth fill with fangs to match Theo’s, but he lets the _presence_ of it start to bleed out through his skin, his pores. He can see Theo react to it, even as involuntarily as it clearly is; Theo’s pupils dilate and his breath stutters a bit on his next exhale.

“But you _are_ leaving,” Brett challenges. He’d already had Theo half-pinned back against the counter; it turns into more three-quarters pinned when Theo tries to wrench himself back.

“Are you _deaf?_ ” Theo snaps. “We _literally just—_ ”

“ _After_ this,” Brett interrupts, and gets a hold of Theo’s left wrist; gets a hold of the bracelet there, sliding two of his fingers _deep_ around it. He tugs at it pointedly. “After this comes off, you’re leaving.”

Theo’s jaw works. “None,” he repeats, and Brett can feel it rumble through Theo’s—through his own, pressed _up_ against Theo’s—chest, “of your goddamn business.”

Brett just studies him. He can feel every one of Theo’s quick breaths, Theo’s chest expanding and retracting against his own. He tightens his grip around Theo’s bracelet. “What about Dunbar?” He wonders.

That seems to be the magic word; Theo snarls, for real this time, and jams his free arm’s elbow against Brett’s sternum. It winds him just enough that Theo can wrench himself free of Brett’s pin and swing back around into the rest of the kitchen.

“ _Why_ are you always bringing up Liam?” He snaps, and his eyes aren’t _quite_ gold—he’d dropped the shift away from his hands, too—but they’re flecked with little bits of amber; Brett feels the shift under his own skin responding.

“Because you’re always thinking about him,” Brett shoots back.

To his credit, Theo doesn’t even try to deny it. He snaps his teeth—human, but with something _singing_ in the air between them that suggests fangs—and looks away. “What _about_ him?” He finally answers harshly. “He’s going to graduate high school, and go to college, and live his life.”

Brett feels his eyes narrow. Nothing in the words Theo had used suggested that Theo couldn’t be a part of all of that, but his _tone_ certainly had; like it was a universal truth, immutable, that whatever Liam’s future held—whatever life he decided to live—Theo wouldn’t be a part of it. 

Like Theo wouldn’t _let_ himself be a part of it. Brett glances back at the map behind himself, and frowns.

“And what are you going to do?” He wonders, looking back at Theo.

Theo stares back at him for a few beats, and then says, “Survive.”

Brett studies him. “You know,” he tells him after a handful of syrupy seconds have crawled themselves by, “you talk a good game, but you don’t act like an omega.” Theo’s jaw clenches. Brett tips his head, his nostrils flaring pointedly. “You don’t smell like one, either.”

Theo just scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “Spare me your ‘pack’ bullshit,” he spits out, unimpressed. “I’m not a werewolf.”

This time it’s _Brett_ who scoffs. “So, what? Chimeras can’t be part of packs? _Corey_ isn’t a part of Scott’s pack?”

Theo’s jaw works. “Corey’s different.”

Brett’s eyebrows shoot up. “How, exactly?”

Theo doesn’t answer. Instead he just snarls again. “Why are you still _here?_ ” He demands. “Why do you _care?_ ”

_I don’t_ , Brett wants to say, except that the alpha shift under his skin is straining outwards again, only this time it’s not reacting to Theo’s disrespect but the _distress_ twining itself around Theo’s scent; the pinched-mouth way he’s glaring at Brett, anger and embarrassment all over his face but something _else_ underneath it. 

“Theo,” he tries, and reaches instinctively out, but Theo’s eyes just start to widen.

They widen, and then they narrow.

He catches Brett’s reaching wrist and uses it to yank Brett forward, fast enough and unexpectedly enough that when he then pivots around to slam Brett back against the counter, Brett can’t stop him. Brett gasps, winded, as Theo bends him back over the counter, one hand still on his wrist and the other on his throat. He’s standing close enough that they’re pressed together thigh-to-thigh.

“Alright,” he hisses. “You’ve had your fun. Now, _get—_ ”

Except that Theo isn’t the only one off-balanced, whose instincts have been so revved-up and shoved down so many times in the space of the last fifteen minutes that they’re slipping loose of his control; Brett’s body _moves_ before his conscious mind really has the chance to catch up with it.

He pushes forward and spins out from underneath Theo, reversing their positions and slamming _Theo_ down, face-first, against the counter. _Shit_ , Brett thinks, even as he’s driving one hand down against the back of Theo’s neck, his other catching one of Theo’s wrists and twisting it _up_ , high up on his back. 

“ _Shit_ ,” he repeats, out loud this time. “Shit, sor—”

But he doesn’t get to finish apologizing; the second Theo feels him start to lighten his hold, he surges _up_ and twists around, striking out with a clawed hand that Brett just _barely_ manages to lean back to avoid. But the alpha shift is _out_ now; Brett snarls in reflexive response and gets his arms tangled up with Theo’s to prevent him from striking out again, and pivots them back so that he can drive Theo back against the fridge, pinning him there chest-to-thigh. And not just that; Brett bares his shifted fangs against the slope of Theo’s neck, a deliberate, instinctive threat.

Theo sucks in a sharp breath, and goes still.

_Shit_ , Brett thinks again, even as something in him practically _howls_ with victory, and he starts to pull back. But he’s got his _nose_ practically buried behind the curve of Theo’s ear. He can’t _not_ smell what he starts to smell.

“Oh,” he says dumbly, when he catches the first weak thread of it. He can’t stop himself from inhaling deeper, deliberately seeking it out this time. “Oh, you _like_ this.”

It’s not actually a taunt; just a helpless observation. Still, Theo takes it as one. “Fuck _you_ ,” he snarls, and tries to struggle out from Brett’s hold; Brett’s pinned him back flat before the conscious thought even occurs to him. It’s one of the reasons why he can feel Theo’s cock twitch against his thigh.

Brett pulls his head back—leaving the rest of his body pressed up _hard_ against Theo to keep his tension-vibrating body pinned—to look at him. His eyes must be red; he can see the slight reflection in Theo’s own eyes, but more than that: he feels every _inch_ of the startled, helpless breath Theo sucks in. 

His cock twitches again.

Theo stares at him, and something terrified crosses his face. “I swear to god, if you bring up Liam again…”

“Why would I have to,” Brett starts to retort, but he can’t finish the rest of the thought— _when you just did_ —because Theo suddenly surges forward into him.

But it’s not an attack. Brett moans in startled, helpless surprise at the kiss, and presses Theo back harder against the fridge as he kisses him back; as he swipes his tongue across the seam of Theo’s lips, and then _into_ his mouth when Theo immediately drops his jaw open for him. 

He fucks Theo right there on the kitchen floor, their clothes left on but shoved clumsily out of the way, Brett’s fingers slick with lube from the little packet he’d had stashed in his wallet. Theo moans against his bracing forearms as Brett works on opening him up, his hips rocking back against Brett’s hand and the muscles of his back _rippling_ against Brett’s chest, Brett folded over him with his other hand braced by Theo’s head, his mouth on the back of Theo’s neck.

The first time he’d pressed his lips there Theo had jerked hard enough to dislodge him, and Brett had gone to pull back—message sent and received—except then Theo had reached up and _dug_ his fingers into Brett’s hair, and wrenched him back down. Brett had groaned, and closed the very tips of his shifted fangs around the top of Theo’s spine.

Theo takes him _beautifully_ when Brett finally starts pressing inside. He tightens up in a first, reflexive reaction, but then he sucks in a deep breath, and as he shudders it out, he relaxes enough that Brett slips easily the rest of the way in, flush with his ass. _You’ve done this before_ , Brett realizes, and doesn’t know why the thought disturbs him until he remembers: the Dread Doctors, the Beast. Theo had been a _spy_.

But Brett doesn’t get the chance to linger on the thought. Theo whips around to glare at him and snarls through clenched teeth, “What the fuck are you _waiting_ for?”

Brett bares his teeth, and wraps one hand around Theo’s hip, and his other hand around the back of Theo’s neck, and _fucks_ him.

He doesn’t pull away immediately after. Instead he stays braced over Theo, his chest to Theo’s heaving back, his hand still wet with Theo’s release. Below him, Theo is shuddering through the last of the aftershocks from his orgasm, and Brett has to bite back a groan as it causes Theo to tighten like a _vice_ around his sensitive, softening cock, still buried deep in Theo’s ass.

But as the arousal and desperation starts to fade from Brett’s mind, his and Theo’s earlier conversation starts to filter back in. He closes his eyes, and presses his forehead against the side of Theo’s head. 

“You,” he tells him quietly, not so much a taunt as an exhausted, too-honest observation, “have elevated self-sabotage to an art-form.”

Theo stiffens underneath him. “Shut up,” he orders, but it’s almost _blank_ in its tone; reflexive. 

And he doesn’t pull away. He does the _opposite_ , to Brett’s surprise; he huddles a little further underneath the shell of Brett’s body. Brett’s eyes snap open, and he stares at what little of Theo’s face he can see, and then he closes his eyes, and curls himself a little more tightly around Theo below him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback loved! If you liked, please consider a comment or a [reblog](https://eneiryu.tumblr.com/post/618401611925061632/the-knock-at-the-door-came-one-two-three)!
> 
> Tomorrow's chapter to follow!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Liam** _

Liam first realizes that Theo has arrived at the coffee shop when someone pushes his beanie down over his eyes.

“Hey!” Liam exclaims, jerking and flailing his hands up to shove it back. By the time he manages to fix it, resettling the beanie back on his head, Theo has claimed the chair across from him and—stolen his drink.

He immediately makes a face after the first sip. “Jesus,” he complains. “What the hell _is_ that? It tastes like a spice cabinet tripped and fell into a coffee grinder, and then they tried to cover the whole thing up with milk.”

Liam colors, and leans forward to swipe it back. “If you don’t _like_ it,” he suggests testily, “maybe _go_ _get your own_.”

Theo rolls his eyes, but he does stand, and make his way over to the counter. Liam huffs and huddles protectively over his drink as Theo goes, watching him through suspicious eyes. He also raises one hand to preemptively block any further attempts from Theo to screw with his beanie. 

Of course, he completely forgets about it as he refocuses on his laptop after he gets bored while Theo is in line, and so Theo is able to and _does_ shove his beanie back down over his eyes a second time when he returns. “God damn it!” Liam swears, and strikes out blindly in an attempt to smack Theo in retaliation. 

It doesn’t work; he just raps his knuckles painfully on the table. Liam yelps a little, drowning out Theo’s laughter, and then he glares at the back of his closed eyelids, and rips the beanie off his head completely before settling it back on. Theo is lounging in his chosen chair and smirking at him when he can finally see again, and Liam flips him off reflexively before remembering where they are and quickly dropping his hand back down between his thighs, coloring. Theo laughs again.

“What are you working on, anyway?” Theo wonders, and hooks a finger around Liam’s laptop so that he can slide it across the table towards himself. 

Liam makes a startled sound and tries to make a lunge for it, but he has to abort halfway through when he nearly knocks over his own drink, and has to concentrate on rescuing that instead. By the time he’s gotten that straightened out and looked back up, Theo is clicking through the open tabs of Liam’s web browser and frowning thoughtfully.

“College applications,” Liam mutters finally, though it’s not like he _needs_ to offer the explanation; Theo’s staring right at them.

Theo hums and keeps looking through his tabs. Liam glowers at him for a few seconds, but then his eyes flick helplessly around the rest of the coffee shop, and he groans and drops his face against his folded forearms on the table. 

Almost immediately he yelps and jumps, though, banging his knee on the underside, when Theo kicks him. “What’s wrong with you?” He asks when Liam raises his head to glare at him. “And _don’t_ say ‘nothing,’” he warns. “Your scent is all over the place.”

Liam closes his mouth and swallows down the exact _nothing_ that Theo had warned him against giving voice to. He looks around the coffee shop again, his lip between his teeth. “It’s just,” he finally says, releasing his lip. He looks at Theo when Theo stops screwing around with Liam’s laptop and looks back at him. “It’s just, I can’t go _anywhere_ now without. I can’t even—I can’t even _walk down the street_ without someone looking at me like they kicked my dog. Except, you know, the dog was _me_ , and all of my friends, and…”

“Liam,” Theo interrupts his rambling quietly; Liam groans and covers his face with his hands. 

But he can feel Theo’s attention like a physical thing; he spreads his fingers so that he can glare helplessly at him through the gaps. Theo frowns at him, and then frowns at the other patrons around the coffee shop who are, in fact, doing the world’s worst job of pretending not to stare at their table. “They’re not afraid,” Theo points out, and Liam nearly snarls _I know that_ , but Theo isn’t done, apparently: “They’re sorry.”

Liam knows _that_ , too. It doesn’t help. “Yeah, well,” he snaps. “They can be as sorry as they _like_. It doesn’t change the fact that a lot of them helped Monroe hunt me and my friends down, and those that _didn’t_ just stood by and did _nothing!_ ”

He winds up all but yelling that last part; the silence that falls throughout the shop is deafening. Liam flushes, and Theo sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, then,” he announces, and closes Liam’s laptop with a definitive click. He tucks it under his arm as he stands, and gets his other hand under Liam’s elbow, and levers him up. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Liam nearly protests. He doesn’t _want_ to leave. He’s got as much right to be here as anyone else, but. But the entire coffee shop stinks to high hell of regret, now, and there’s a number of guilty eyes flicking there-and-away from him as Theo literally _hauls_ him out the door. 

“Sorry,” Liam mumbles a few minutes later. They’re walking side by side, now, Liam’s hands in his pockets as he kicks absently at a stone sitting on the sidewalk. 

Theo just shrugs. They’d made a pit stop at Liam’s SUV to drop off Liam’s laptop and backpack, and so Theo’s arms are free; he uses them to idly flick a coin up in the air before catching it, again and again. Liam watches it glint in the sunlight for a few moments, and then colors and looks away again.

“You know,” Theo says a half-minute or so later. “I couldn’t help but notice that none of those applications were for UCLA.”

Liam snorts, and this time when he kicks at a loose stone he kicks it hard enough that it _pings_ against a lamppost a few feet away and careens off into the street. “It’d be a waste of the application fee. There’s no _way_ my grades are good enough to get in.” 

Theo gives him a strange look. “Your _grades?_ ” He repeats incredulously. “Liam, you’re one of the best lacrosse players in the _state_. I’m pretty sure they’ll take you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Liam agrees, over-loud. “Except that I’m not _going_ to play lacrosse.”

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that Theo’s stopped walking until he’s already a few feet away. He jerks when he does, and spins around a heel to find Theo staring at him, his brow furrowed. 

“What do you mean, you’re not going to play lacrosse?” He demands. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had recruiters practically _salivating_ at the idea of having you join their teams.”

“Yeah, I have,” Liam shoots back. “So _what?_ It doesn’t change anything.” He spins back around on his heel, fully intending to start walking again, but Theo gets a hold of his arm and yanks him back around.

“Liam!” He protests.

Liam just feels his own expression twist, and he rips his arm out of Theo’s grip. “Look, I _can’t_ , alright?” He practically yells. “It’s been hard enough these past few weeks _already_. If it weren’t for Corey, you know, then…” He cuts off, biting off a frustrated noise. “I can’t—I can’t risk going somewhere, where I’m going to be _alone_ , and—and—” _hurting someone_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. 

_Proving Monroe right about me_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

But Theo just says, “So you should _definitely_ be applying to UCLA, then. You know, where _Corey and Mason_ will be.”

“It’s not Corey’s job to babysit me!” Liam just yells. “It’s not _Mason’s_ job to babysit me!”

Theo just stares at him. “I’m not sure that’s how _friendships_ work,” he points out.

“Sure, because you’re such a goddamn expert on the subject,” Liam snaps. He regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth, but when he sneaks a glance at Theo, wincing, Theo’s expression hasn’t changed at all.

Still.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have—sorry.”

Theo shrugs again. Liam’s beginning to _hate_ that shrug. He also starts walking again, brushing right by Liam. Liam sags a little, his expression falling and his shoulders slumping, and then he hurries to catch up.

“You know,” he points out with an air of attempted nonchalance, deliberately echoing Theo’s words from earlier; Theo shoots him an unimpressed eye-roll of a look. “I couldn’t help but notice that _you_ haven’t said _shit_ about what you’re going to do, for all the crap you’re giving me.” 

“Maybe because it’s not really _up_ to me,” Theo retorts, and holds up his braceleted left wrist demonstratively.

Now _Liam_ rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” he gripes. “Argent isn’t going to keep that thing on you for forever.”

But: “I don’t know,” Theo just mutters. “He might.”

“Theo,” Liam complains.

“Look, whatever,” Theo snaps. “I’ll—cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Liam just stares at the side of his face. _That doesn’t sound like you at_ all _,_ he finds himself thinking. Theo _always_ has a plan. Theo always has _multiple_ plans. Liam frowns. 

But he also recognizes the slope to Theo’s shoulders; he sighs, and swallows down the urge to pry. They keep walking, and the longer Liam goes without saying anything, the more the tense line of Theo’s shoulders starts to relax. Liam bites his lip.

“Look, do you want to—get food or something?” Liam finally asks him. “You sort of had to abandon your drink back there.”

Theo shoots him an amused look. “How generous of you to offer,” he says, “considering your wallet’s in your backpack in your car.”

Liam flushes; he’d forgotten entirely. Theo just laughs. 

“Come on,” he says, and veers off to the left; Liam recognizes the shortcut he’s about to take, which will take them into the little cluster of shops and restaurants near the community college. “I’ll spot you.”

“You mean _Peter_ will spot me,” Liam mutters, just to be contrary; Theo laughs again, but doesn’t deny it.

Theo has to head back to Devenford, after they finish eating. Liam goes home. His dad’s working an overnight shift in the ER and his mom had gone out to eat with a handful of old college friends, and so Liam just heads up to his room and collapses facedown onto his bed, and only afterwards turns onto his back with an exaggerated groan and pulls out his laptop. 

All of his applications are still up in their various tabs. Liam starts to click listlessly through them, and then he freezes, and squints at the tab with his email. After a second he clicks over to it, and then spends a few seconds just staring at the new message sitting in his inbox. Eventually he clicks into it.

 _Congratulations on starting your application to UCLA_ , the email greets, even the black-and-white text somehow managing to come off as offensively cheerful. _Click here to finish and submit your application._

Liam hovers his cursor over the indicated link for a few seconds, mouth pursed, and then finally clicks it. It takes his laptop a few seconds to pull up the page, and when he does, it opens to a ninety-percent completed application; all that’s missing is the little box where he needs to upload one of the college essays he’d already written. He frowns at it, and then he scrolls idly up over the rest of the application, and freezes.

 _Yes, I play a sport_ , one of the questions declares; there’s a black _X_ in the checkbox next to the option. In the drop down menu, someone has already selected _lacrosse_. Liam reaches for his phone.

 _You asshole_ , he texts Theo.

 _I added my email as a back-up_ , Theo replies within seconds, _so I’ll know if you don’t submit it._

Liam glares at his phone. Or he tries to, anyway, but his lips keep curling upwards in a helpless smile. He flicks his thumb against the side of his phone, considering, and then he drops it off to the side, and pulls his laptop closer to himself. 

_**Theo** _

Theo gets the email when Liam submits his finished application, and then less than a minute later he _also_ gets a picture from Liam; a screenshot of the _application submitted_ page, with Liam’s raised middle finger blocking out most of the screen. Theo smirks.

He also throws his phone aside, after, and buries the hand he’d been holding it with in his hair, his elbow braced on his upright knee. He’s sat in his living room on the floor, the coffee table shoved aside to make room for the fold-out map he has spread over the carpet. _Okay_ , he tells himself, trying to refocus. _Okay, Nevada first_. 

He taps the _X_ right along the border of California and Nevada, overlaying a seemingly deserted stretch of desert. The operating theater there had been one of the biggest, and certainly one of the best _stocked_ ; Theo could load up on most of what he needed, and then head north after that, stopping along the way. 

He’d stick to the Rocky Mountains, he decides, idly thinking _I could get lost there, if needed_. He could _lose_ people there, if needed; pursuers would have a damn hard time following him in his wolf form over the most inhospitable parts of the mountains, if it came to that.

And then he’d hit Montana, up into Canada. He’d have to transit a number of existing pack territories and the jurisdictions of more than a few hunter clans— _these ones are Montana-based_ , he remembers telling Liam, Liam all but pressed up against his side—but he’d done that before. He could do it again.

He’d _have_ to do it again.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhausted and—something else. The route he’d chosen would take him further and further away from L.A., from _California_. He tells himself it’s a coincidence.

He glances at his phone, laying abandoned on the carpet to the side of the map, and then he leans forward, and retrieves it, only so that he can slide it forcefully away; it rockets underneath the couch and hits one of the legs with a _thunk_. Theo turns back to the map, and ignores it.

 _Okay_ , he tells himself, trying to refocus, _forcing_ himself to refocus: _Okay, Nevada first_.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep but he does, slumped against the wall of his living room and with the map still spread out in front of his knees. He’d closed his eyes just for a _minute_ —just long enough to shove down the tight, claustrophobic feeling in his chest—and when he opens them up, it’s hours later; he can tell by the slant of the moonlight in through the window.

But more than that.

“No,” Theo moans. “No, no. God _damn_ it.”

But it’s too late. His body is already wracked with spasms, and even _saying_ the little he says, he manages to clip his tongue on his chattering teeth; his mouth fills with blood, and he can barely force himself to swallow it down while the cut sluggishly, slowly heals. 

_Shower_ , he thinks, but there’s no way he’ll make it; he’s shaking too hard. There’s really only one thing for it and it’s going to _suck_ , but. _Come on_ , Theo thinks, trying to pull his pain-frayed thoughts together. _Come on_ , he pleads with himself, trying to locate that little oasis of calm in himself that lets him—

The shift practically _explodes_ out of him, fast and painful and graceless enough that Theo lets out a helpless, mournful little _howl_ as his bones finish settling. It helps, some, his fur trapping what little heat he’s managing to generate, but it’s not _enough_. Gritting his lupine teeth, Theo crawls forward—ripping the map still spread out in front of him as he goes—until he can reach the couch, and lean up just enough to get his teeth around the comforter piled messily on the cushions.

He yanks it down, and then crawls underneath it, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes. 

He doesn’t go back to sleep—he _can’t_ , his body wracked with too frequent, and too unpredictable, of wrenching spasms—but he drifts, his mind hazed with pain. But even still, he comes _awake_ when he hears the sudden pounding on his door.

“Raeken, what the _fuck!_ ” Brett yells. “Open the goddamn door, you prick!”

Theo just _snarls_. It’s weak, and thready, and it fucking _hurts_ ; Theo breaks off on a whine, and crawls backwards a little further into his little nest of blankets. There’s a sudden ringing silence—Brett must have heard him—and then the handle of his door jiggles.

“I swear to god, Theo,” Brett warns lowly. “Either come open the goddamn door, or I’m breaking your lock.”

Theo does nothing except huddle back even further under the comforter, his eyes squeezing shut. A handful of seconds pass—Brett listening for him approaching, maybe—and then Brett swears, and there’s the sudden, sharp _grind_ of protesting machinery; Brett making good on his threat.

The door bangs open a second later, and Theo can’t help the startled yelp that leaves his throat at the noise. Brett mutters _what the fuck_ , but he also takes the time to shove the door back closed—he’d broken the lock as promised, apparently, not the door itself—before footsteps start approaching. 

But Theo’s still in pain, and shifted, and riding on _instinct_ ; when Brett pulls the comforter off of him, he snarls again, teeth bared and shaking limbs braced and ready to lunge.

Brett startles backwards, dropping the comforter. “Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes. “Holy—is that. Raeken, is that _you?_ ”

Theo snaps his teeth and doesn’t stop growling. But he also huddles back further against the couch, and the place where it meets the wall; he hadn’t meant to corner himself, but cornered he _is_ , and he can feel _panic_ start to grip his throat and _crush_. 

Brett doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still too caught up in staring at him, wide-eyed. “Holy shit. You can—you can full-shift. Holy _shit_.”

Theo has nowhere to _go_ ; he’s backed up as far as he can against the couch and wall, and Brett’s standing in front of his only exit out to the rest of the apartment. He _whines_ , hating himself for it even as he does it, and shifts uneasily, his lupine brain looking for any escape route, looking for any hole to dive through, and unable to find one.

Maybe it’s the whine that does it, but Brett finally snaps out of his fascinated staring. “Raeken,” he says more seriously. “What’s going—”

He also starts to reach forward. Theo lunges forward reflexively, and misses Brett’s hand by a _hair_ as Brett snatches it back before Theo can _bite_ it. Brett’s eyes narrow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He breathes, and it’s not an insult, but a genuine question; he edges a few steps closer.

 _No!_ , Theo wants to yell. _Get back!_ But of course he can’t; all he can do is growl louder, and hunch lower, and then, when Brett doesn’t get the message—spring up at him, aiming for his throat. 

But that’s apparently what Brett had been waiting for; he twists around as Theo lunges, and gets one arm wrapped up, underneath Theo’s chest, and the other wrapped _over_ his head and muzzle. He clamps both his hands around Theo’s mouth, and collapses with him as Theo’s momentum carries him back down, so that he’s pinning Theo flat, his knees on either side of Theo’s back haunches and his chest pressing Theo’s front legs into the ground. 

Now Theo _thrashes_ , instinct taking over whatever last vestiges of conscious thought he’d had. He’s whining as much as he’s growling as he tries to shake Brett off—tries to free his muzzle from Brett’s clamping hands, tries to dislodge him from his back—but he can’t; Brett’s too heavy, and too well-braced, and too _strong_.

He’s also quickly talking in Theo’s ear, his face pressed right up to the side of Theo’s own. “Theo, stop. _Stop_. Calm down, _please_. I am trying,” he breaks off as Theo thrashes particularly hard, and he has to quickly readjust, “I am trying to _help_ you!”

Theo whines again, but he’s also still shaking, and between the muscle spasms and the effort of shifting and now the effort of trying to fight Brett off, he’s exhausted. He starts to slump—not _relaxing_ so much as _giving up_ —and huddles down underneath Brett’s body, waiting with a bloodstream still pumped full of adrenaline and reflexive panic for whatever Brett decides to do next. 

What Brett _does_ is grit his teeth; Theo can feel the muscles of his jaw clench against the side of his own head. “Why the fuck,” he manages, and now _his_ voice is strained, and shaking a bit, “are you so goddamn _cold?_ ”

Theo just snaps his teeth, best he can, in Brett’s hold. Brett reflexively clamps his hands down harder. 

But almost immediately he starts to relax them. “Look, just don’t—don’t _bite_ me, okay? Trying to help here, remember.”

Theo considers biting him on principle—some of his ability to think clearly is filtering back in, the longer Brett stays pressed up against him with his heat bleeding into Theo’s own fur—but resists the urge; Brett hesitates a second longer, and then takes his hands away altogether. 

“Okay,” he says, clearly walking himself through what he’s saying as he says it. “Okay, I’m going to assume you being fucking freezing and you being like this aren’t unconnected, so.” He flails a hand back—he’s still laying on top of Theo—until he can grab the comforter that Theo had been huddled under, and drags it forward until he can pull it back over the top of them. 

The little pocket of warmth it creates heats up _fast_ , between the two of them. Between the two of them and Brett still pressed up as close to Theo as he can get, eventually turning onto his side so that he’s not pinning Theo but instead cradling him in the curve of his body. Theo _shudders_ , his limbs juddering, and squeezes his eyes shut; he barely manages to bite back the relieved, helpless _whine_ that tries to shake itself loose of his throat.

It doesn’t help that Brett can’t seem to stop himself from _murmuring_ things as they lay there, one of his hands stroking down Theo’s trembling flank. “I can’t believe you can full-shift,” he just keeps breathing. “That’s—do you know how _rare_ that is?” He laughs, high and a little breathy; Theo can feel it as much as hear it, Brett’s chest pressed up against his spine. “I mean, Mrs. Hale could do it, and I guess Derek can now, too, but _jesus_. I’ve—I’ve never…” The fingers of his gently stroking hand are trembling, a little; Theo has to fight to keep himself from pressing up into them. 

But the second the last of the spasms fade, all that relief—all the confused, desperate gratitude—turns in on itself and becomes something else. 

Theo shifts back and throws himself away from Brett, turning and snarling at him through a fanged mouth as Brett immediately tries to follow him. Brett freezes, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open, and Theo snaps his teeth at him again in warning as he darts a hand forward, and drags the comforter over to himself so he can wrap it around his naked waist.

“What the fuck,” he starts to say as he gets it secured, low and deadly and over-calm, “are you _doing_ here?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Brett replies incredulously. He sounds as surprised as he does pissed off, though the latter is definitely gaining steam. “Seems to me that I just _saved_ your ass!”

“I would have been fine!” Theo shouts back. “I would have. It was none of your,” he stops, biting off a frustrated sound at his own inarticulateness. “How the fuck did you even know what was happening?”

Brett stares at him. “I _didn’t_. Or not _specifically_ , anyway, I could just,” he hesitates, and then waves a hand demonstratively at the back of his head. 

Theo just stares blankly right back at him. “What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

Brett throws up the hand he’d been using to gesture, blowing out an explosive breath as he does. “It means sleeping with an alpha has _consequences_ , asshole!”

Theo recoils. He stares at Brett, horrified. “You—what?” He stares a little longer, and then he wheels around so that he’s not looking at Brett anymore. “Okay, well—great. Fucking—fantastic. Good to know that _now_.” He nearly trips over the comforter he still has wrapped around his waist, and snarls in frustration as he barely manages to catch it. “ _Fuck_.”

Brett climbs to his feet, one hand outstretched. “Raeken—Theo. Come on.”

Theo just snarls at him again in warning. Brett takes his hand back. They stare at each other from a few feet away, Brett’s brow furrowed and his mouth pinched, and Theo’s shoulders heaving. 

“Look,” Brett finally murmurs, low and soothing and _alpha_ calm; Theo can’t help reflexively reacting to it, but that just means there’s even _more_ room for anger and embarrassment to flow into, filling up his ribs, when he shoves that calm aside. Brett must catch the quick dip and sudden spike to his pulse or his scent or whatever, because he grimaces. “Theo, _come on_. Whatever it is, it’s _not over_. If I can tell that, _you_ sure as shit can.”

Theo looks away from him. He’s not enough of an idiot to try and deny it but he _especially_ couldn’t do it while meeting Brett’s red-flecked eyes. His hands spasm around their grip holding the comforter closed around his waist, and his teeth grit. 

“So what?” He finally challenges, and looks back at Brett. “ _Consequences of sleeping with an alpha_ ,” Theo spits out, deliberately grating, “or not, it’s not your problem. You’ve done your good deed for the night or whatever, now get—” 

He’d started to turn away, wanting to _get_ _away_ from Brett, but then he can’t; Brett grabs his arm and hauls him to a stop. “Theo,” he snaps. Then he stops, and closes his eyes as he apparently sucks in a deep, calming breath. “Look,” he says again, “if you could pull your head out of your _egotistical ass_ for a minute, maybe you could realize that this isn’t _all about you_.”

“What?” Theo asks, brow furrowing. Brett rolls his eyes.

“I’m feeling whatever’s happening to you, asshole,” Brett explains tightly. “Not to the same _extreme_ , but…” He trails off, and takes a hesitant, slow step closer; Theo stiffens, but doesn’t move away. “Let me help you,” Brett murmurs, and takes another step closer. He must catch the pissed-off tightening of Theo’s mouth because he hurries to correct, “Let me help _myself_ by helping you.”

Theo stares up at him. Brett’s close enough now that they’re nearly chest-to-chest, and his lips are hovering just about Theo’s; Theo can’t stop his eyes from flickering down to them. Something _spikes_ in the air between them, his heartbeat or Brett’s scent or whatever, but it drives through the anger in Theo’s chest like a wedge, splitting it. 

The hollow that it leaves behind just _exhausts_ him.

He swallows. “What’d you have in mind?” He asks, all the sharp edges of his tone sanded-off and made dull by the heaviness he can feel weighing down his limbs.

“ _Not_ wherever your mind just went,” Brett retorts. Theo’s upper lip curls in a snarl, but the dig actually helps steady him, some; he doesn’t move away when Brett suddenly steps that last bit closer, and drops his hand to Theo’s still holding the comforter closed. 

But Brett doesn’t let it drop, once he’s bit by bit encouraged Theo to relax his grip. Instead he keeps a hold of it, and brushes the tip of his nose across Theo’s, his lips following. “Come on,” he murmurs quietly, and starts walking Theo backwards, out of the living room and down the hallway.

Eventually he gets Theo spun around, and walking forward, towards the bedroom. Theo nearly balks, but Brett’s right behind him, and so after another split-second of hesitation he finishes stumbling forward through the doorway, and onto the bed. He experiences _another_ quick jolt of something—his head’s too much of a mess to sort out exactly what it is, irritation and humiliation tangling themselves together around whatever reflexive arousal he feels as he gets his naked knees up on the bed—but Brett just waits until he’s laid down, curled on his side, and then climbs up after him, settling the comforter over them both.

“This okay?” Brett breathes as he starts to press himself carefully up against Theo’s back. Theo doesn’t say anything, his teeth gritting, but he shifts back so that he’s pressed more completely, more tightly, into the curve of Brett’s body. Brett’s responding sigh ruffles his hair and skates over the sensitive skin of the back of his ear. “Can never make shit easy when you can make it hard, can you?” He observes quietly.

“Fuck you,” Theo spits back, but he shivers—and not _cold_ shivers—when Brett drops an arm around his waist, and _hauls_ him back more tightly against himself.

Theo drifts. He might sleep, he doesn’t really know, but when he blinks himself back to full awareness, finally, dawn is stretching its creeping fingers across the floor of his bedroom. He stares at it, and then he jolts when Brett shifts in his sleep and presses Theo more tightly against himself, briefly, before relaxing again.

But even that small movement is enough to wake Brett up, apparently. He groans and blinks himself awake; Theo can feel the sweep of Brett’s eyelashes across the back of his neck. Theo grits his teeth, and sits up fast.

“Jesus,” Brett complains, as the movement practically rips his arm away from Theo’s waist. But the irritated frown on his face drops off the second he looks up, and at whatever must be on _Theo’s_ face. “Theo—”

“Don’t,” Theo orders harshly, and then brings his hands up to rake roughly back through his own hair. “Just—whatever you were about to say, just—just _don’t_.”

But Brett can’t seem to help himself; he sits up, and reaches for him. “Theo, come o—”

“I said _don’t!_ ” Theo half-snarls, and twists around not only to avoid Brett’s outstretched hand, but to pin both his wrists to the mattress by Brett’s head. It leaves him sitting astride Brett’s hips; Theo sucks in a sharp, startled breath.

Brett’s eyes dilate, even as he bites off his own startled sound; his hips jerk reflexively underneath Theo’s, grinding the weave of his jeans—and his rapidly hardening cock—up against Theo’s bare ass. But then he blinks rapidly and gives his head a short, sharp jerk, and stills.

“Theo,” he breathes warningly.

“What?” Theo challenges, something sparking in his chest. “You going to try and tell me you don’t _want_ to?” He grinds down against Brett as he says it, purposefully this time.

Brett’s hands fly down to still his hips; Theo had tried to keep them pinned, and _couldn’t_. It causes his breath to catch. But:

“This is not a good idea,” Brett counters quietly, and tightens his fingers even _more_ around Theo’s bare waist when Theo tries to shift again. 

“What?” Theo murmurs, low and smooth and leaning down so that his lips are just _almost_ brushing Brett’s on every word. “You worried I’m still sabotaging myself?”

Brett bites off a frustrated noise, the muscles of his neck _taut_ as he apparently resists leaning up against Theo’s offered mouth. “Yeah, actually,” he snaps back.

Theo feels something clench _hard_ in his chest, his nostrils flaring and his teeth gritting. “Well,” he finally orders harshly, “ _don’t_ ,” and leans the rest of the way down to press his lips to Brett’s, kissing him _hard_. 

Brett hesitates for a second longer, and then he groans, loud and pained-sounding, and slides his hands up from Theo’s hips so that his arms are around Theo’s waist instead, and he rolls him over, pressing Theo down into the mattress as he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him back. 

_**Brett** _

It’s a sign of how distracted he is that Brett doesn’t actually notice Lori until she’s practically on top of him.

“Hey,” he finally says, blinking, as he looks up from his laptop and sees her just starting to swing her bag off her shoulder so that she can sit.

“Hey,” she says quietly back, and drops her bag in her lap as she settles down with her back against the tree Brett is sat up against, and her side against his. “Mrs. Mickenberg said you weren’t in her third period class.”

 _I got worried_ , she doesn’t say, but Brett hears it anyway. He grimaces, and lifts an arm up so that he can wrap it around her shoulders, and pull her in. She makes a complaining noise but falls almost immediately against him, tucking herself up underneath his chin as he turns and presses his face against her hair, and just breathes her in. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his breath ruffling the loose hairs on top of her head. “Filipo had some stuff he needed to talk to me about. Time-sensitive stuff,” he adds, probably unnecessarily.

Lori hums; Brett feels it echo through his own chest. She’s not asking, not really, but she’s not _not_ asking; Brett brings his free hand up—his other still clasped around her shoulder—and rubs at his face. He sighs.

“Turns out most of the pack had designated Satomi as their heir, you know?” He explains quietly. “So that—that the pack itself would get what they had, if something—something happened to them.”

“Oh,” Lori says, her voice small. She huddles a little more completely against him. “Oh, so since we—since _you_ —are _Satomi’s_ heir…” She trails off.

“ _We_ ,” Brett corrects her firmly, almost a little harshly. Lori winces, causing _Brett_ to immediately wince; he hugs her tighter to him in apology. “But, yeah,” he agrees, picking back up on his explanation. “Some court stuff finally got figured out, I guess, with some of the—the wills, and things. Filipo had to tell me about it, before he could finalize everything.”

Lori frowns, and pulls back some to look at him. “Finalize _what?_ ” She wonders.

Brett had had to loosen up his arm to let her pull away, and now he sighs and takes it away completely, so that he can reach for his laptop—still open on his lap—and turn it towards her. Lori frowns at him and then at the screen, and then her face blanks with shock.

“We’re rich,” Brett announces, and then has to swallow around a bone-dry throat.

“Oh, my god,” Lori breathes, and leans forward a little more like the numbers on the screen are part of some magic-eye picture, or something, that would only make sense the closer she got to them. She’s still too shocked to have room for much else but Brett can smell the barest beginnings of grief starting to lick up her scent, turning it ashy. He leans forward to drop his chin on her shoulder, burying his face in her hair.

“We’ve got the property, too,” Brett tells her, low and croaking like a confession. “The farm up in Oregon where we used to spend summers, remember?”

Lori nods. She also bites her lip hard enough to break the skin; Brett can smell the sudden sting of blood in the air, even though he can’t see it. “What about the cabin up in the mountains?” She wonders, and Brett can’t help the wobbly smile that curves his lips; she’d loved that damn cabin.

“All ours,” Brett replies. “You can finally tear down that wallpaper you hated in the upstairs bedroom.” 

He means it as a joke but Lori’s shoulders just judder. “ _Never_ ,” she whispers fiercely, and all of the sudden turns so that she’s buried her face in Brett’s chest. Brett stares down at her, startled. “ _Never, never, never_.”

Brett feels his own expression start to crumple, and he wraps his arms _tight_ around her as her shoulders—her whole _body_ really—starts to shake. He can tell in at least three different ways that she’s started to cry—can smell the salt of her tears in the air, can feel the dampness of his shirt against his chest, can feel it as sobs start to wrack her balled-up frame—and each of them _saws_ at him. He can feel his own eyes start to reflexively burn, not just with his own tears but with the alpha shift, slouching mournfully under his skin, and he pulls her in even tighter, _tighter_ , like he could replace the hollowed-out feeling between his ribs with her curled up tight against him. 

“I’d give it all back,” Lori cries. “ _All_ of it, just for the chance to see them again, just _once_. Just—just once.”

Brett squeezes his own eyes shut as tears start to track down his own cheeks, and he buries his face in the top of her head. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice cracking right down the middle as he says it. “Yeah, me too.”

_**Liam** _

“Liam,” Jenna Geyer says, and holds out the object in her hand demonstratively, “what is this?”

Liam glances down at it, and then back at his mother. “It’s a tomato.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “A _tomato_. I asked you to get me a _red pepper_.”

Liam’s face flames to about the same shade of the tomato in his mother’s hand. He goes to snatch it back, but his mother just closes her fingers around it, and yanks it back. “Who raised you, some kind of heathen?” She wonders, and grins obnoxiously to herself at her own joke; Liam gives the middle distance a dry look. “We can’t put it back now that we’ve both had our grubby paws—” she grins again, “—all over it. Just go get me a pepper.”

She turns to set the tomato on top of the carton of eggs already sitting in their cart, and continues pushing it along the produce section. Liam makes a face at her back, but pads over to the colorful display of peppers a few feet away, and starts looking for the least sad-looking red bell pepper he can find. 

He also almost immediately has to grit his teeth when he spots Brandon Morales hovering awkwardly across a stand full of potatoes, doing the _worst_ job Liam has ever seen of pretending to restock it from the cart he’s standing next to. Giving up, Liam grabs the first acceptable looking pepper he finds and jogs back over to his mother. 

“Here,” he announces, handing it over with a deliberate flourish. “Your pepper.”

His mom laughs, and hip-checks him. She sets the pepper next to the tomato. But she also pauses, as she’s retracting her hand, and glances over at—Brandon Morales, who flushes and immediately drops the potato he’d been holding onto the floor. Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Who’s that?” She wonders.

Liam jerks his eyes away, and looks fixedly at the contents of their cart. “Guy from school.”

But he has to look back the next instant, because his mom brings her hand up underneath his chin, and uses it to tip his head up. “He won’t stop staring at you because he’s a _guy from school?_ ” She says skeptically; Liam grimaces. “Is it like, a crush thing?”

“What?” Liam yelps. “No!”

“Okay,” his mom agrees easily. “Because that wasn’t going to explain all the _other_ people who won’t seem to stop staring at you.”

Liam blanches; he’d walked right into that one. Gritting his teeth, he brings his own hand up to gently knock his mom’s away, and takes a step back so that he’s further out of reach. “You don’t know that,” he mutters petulantly. “Maybe I’m a really popular guy.”

His mom laughs, and Liam’s lips flicker at the sound, but she’s still looking at him through thoughtful eyes when he sneaks a glance up at her. Finally she sighs, and taps him on the hip with the edge of their cart. “Come on,” she says, and starts walking again.

Liam bites his lip, and then follows.

As expected, his interrogation had only been deferred, not forgotten; his mom gives him exactly as long as it takes them to get home, and start putting away their groceries, before she says, “Liam.” Just that, just his name. 

Liam nearly drops the can of beans he’d been stretched up on his toes to try and put away, and has to spend a few awkward seconds juggling it before he finally catches it, and can set it down on the counter with a _clunk_. Scrubbing his now-free hands over his face, he turns around and then boosts himself up onto the counter, so that he’s sitting with his legs kicking in the open air as he faces his mother, and gestures his hands wide: _here I am, let’s have it_.

His mom frowns. “I thought you’d told me and your father that everyone had stopped acting weird.”

Liam winces, looking away. “I mean, from one perspective they _have_ ,” he insists, even as there’s another corner of his brain that’s thinking, _I’ve been spending way too much time around Theo_. “The, uh. The weirdness seems to be the new normal, so.”

He drops his gesturing hands to the counter, curling them around the edge as he sneaks a look up at his mother. She doesn’t look satisfied. 

“Have they—said anything?” She prods. “Done anything?”

Liam realizes what she means. “No,” he hurries to assure her. “No, nothing like that.”

She taps a finger against the counter opposite him. “What about Scott?” She wonders. “What’s he have to say about all this?”

“No idea,” Liam mutters, looking down at his kicking feet. “Haven’t asked him.”

“What?” His mom says immediately, and _sharply_ ; it isn’t hard to hear the sudden concern in her voice. “Why not?”

Liam starts answering almost before she’s finished talking. “Because he’s _busy_ , mom,” he insists. “He’s, you know, he’s off trying to find Monr—” He cuts himself off before he can finish saying her name, but it doesn’t matter; when he looks back up, the line of his mom’s mouth is tight.

“Liam,” she says softly.

“They haven’t tried anything,” Liam repeats. “I don’t think they _want_ to try anything, or at least nothing like,” he stumbles over his choice of words, before finally giving up and settling on, “like before.” He winces at his own lame answer, and tries to shore it up by adding, “I mean, that’s what _Theo_ thinks, anyway, he—” 

This time he _really_ cuts himself off. When he looks up, the curve of his mom’s mouth has gone sly. “Theo, huh?” She says, tone now mirthful. “And what exactly does _Theo_ think?”

“ _Mooom_ ,” Liam complains, long and drawn-out; his cheeks are flushing, he can feel it.

“No, really,” his mom insists, and dodges the paper towel that Liam leans over and snags off the roll next to him on the counter specifically so that he can ball it up and throw it at her. “What does Theo think?”

But even as his little paper missile is falling harmlessly to the floor, Liam can feel himself sobering up, the burst of amusement fading away. “He thinks they’re sorry,” he answers quietly, and darts a look up at his mom in time to see the silly grin slide off her own face. 

She holds his eyes, and bites her lip. “And what do _you_ think?”

Liam looks down at his hands, now tangled together in his lap with his nails compulsively picking at each other. He snags one piece of nail hard enough that he tears it, giving himself the world’s shortest hangnail in the split-second before it heals. Exhaling roughly out, Liam drops his hands back down to the counter by his hips before he can do himself more damage.

“I think them being sorry doesn’t bring the people they killed back,” he finally says, and feels his eyes squeeze helplessly shut and his fingers tighten around the counter as he does; it feels like failure, somehow, to admit.

It feels wrong.

“Hey,” his mom suddenly says, and from right in front of him; Liam blinks and looks at her. She catches his eyes, having ducked low to do so, and then straightens up once she sees that she has his attention. She studies him for a few seconds, and then she grimaces softly and brings her hands up to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing the skin underneath his eyes. “It’s okay that you think that. You know that, right?”

Liam flinches. “But, the Anuk-ite, and—”

“Liam,” his mom interrupts firmly. “You don’t owe them _anything_. You _especially_ don’t owe them your forgiveness.” Liam feels his expression start to twist up and he tries to look away, overwhelmed, but his mom just holds his face steady between her hands and ducks to catch his eyes again. “ _Liam_. You forgiving them, or not forgiving them, that’s _your choice_. Nobody gets to make that for you.”

Liam stares back at her, his face still caught between her palms. “I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

His mom’s expression goes just as raw as his own, and she slides her hands back and around his shoulders until she can pull him into a tight hug, and press her face against the top of his head. She holds him there for a few seconds, Liam hiding his face in her neck, and then she pulls back just enough that she can look at him, and brush her thumbs underneath his eyes again. They come away wet, this time.

“That’s okay, too,” she tells him, and catches him when he surges back into her.

_**Theo** _

Theo has nearly made it out of the classroom door when he hears, “Mr. Raeken, wait a moment, please.”

He freezes, and then feels his eyes slip shut as he bites off a curse. Ignoring some of the other students snickering and sliding past him, he hauls the strap of his backpack further up his shoulder and turns back for Ms. Babej’s desk.

“Ma’am?” He offers, when he’s close enough.

She studies him for a few seconds, and then picks something up off her desk, and holds it out to him. “I finished grading your last exam.”

Theo feels his brow furrow, and hesitantly reaches forward to take it. “What, did I screw it up that badly?” He wonders as he starts to look down at it, and then he stares.

“On the contrary,” Ms. Babej says dryly, apparently catching the look on his face. “You aced it.”

Theo’s fingers start to tighten around the stapled packet of papers, and he has to consciously relax them before he crushes the flimsy thing. “Okay,” he says, forcing calm into his voice that he’s not sure he feels. “Thanks for, uh, letting me know.”

He twists around to slide his backpack down his shoulder so that he can unzip it, and slip the exam inside. But:

“Mr. Raeken,” Ms. Babej interrupts, and Theo swallows a sigh and stills. 

He hesitates, and then he forces himself to look up at her. Her expression is soft, and sympathetic, but more than a little intrigued; Theo silently curses _himself_ , this time. 

“I know doctoral students who struggle with some of the concepts that exam covered,” Ms. Babej explains. Her expression goes rueful, and she adds, “I _was_ a doctoral student who struggled with some of the concepts that the exam covered.” 

She waits, but when he doesn’t take her up on the offered joke—when he doesn’t crack a smile, or laugh, but just continues to stand where he is, waiting—she sobers fast. 

“You’re not—Mr. Raeken, you’re not in _trouble_ ,” she tries to reassure him, though Theo’s not sure he _agrees_ ; number one rule of not drawing attention to himself is to _not draw attention_. “This is _impressive_ ,” Ms. Babej insists, a little forcefully; a little frustrated, like she doesn’t understand his less-than-enthusiastic reaction.

“Look, it’s not—” Theo interrupts, before she can try again. He cuts off on a small noise, and then tries again. “It’s not a big deal. I just—” _was raised by_ , “—grew up with—scientists.” He flinches reflexively, and barely manages not to grimace: _grew up with_ , that was one way to put it. “You pick things up by, you know,” he adds, groping for a joke or _anything_ to lighten the tension, “osmosis.”

Ms. Babej’s lips twitch weakly at the pun-of-sorts, but her demeanor has already slid right into concern and it’s not enough to pull her back out. Theo swallows and looks away, his fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack now shrugged back into place on his shoulder. He can sense Ms. Babej’s attention fixed on the side of his face.

“You transferred here recently, right?” She confirms finally.

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little shortly. Grimacing, he forces himself to add, “From Beacon Hills High,” in a softer tone.

“Ah,” Ms. Babej replies, wry. “Well.” This time, Theo lets his own lips flicker in acknowledgement of the unspoken joke. It seems to help; Ms. Babej relaxes a little in her seat. 

But she doesn’t stop _looking_ at him, soft and searching. 

“Well,” she finally says, after the silence has stretched for a few long seconds. She readjusts her chair, scooting it closer to her desk. “I’m sure you’ve already got this figured out, but if you need another recommendation letter for your college applications, just let me know.”

Ms. Babej had shifted the way she did to give him—and herself—a clear _dismissed_ signal; a way out of a conversation that had taken a turn she hadn’t expected. But she off-foots him again. 

He blinks at her, and before he can stop himself he says, “What?”

She jumps slightly—she’d refocused on a random set of papers on her desk, probably trying to give him cover to leave—and looks up at him, her brow furrowing. “Your college applications,” she repeats slowly. “Do you need another recommendation letter? I’d be happy to—”

“No,” Theo interrupts, before he can stop himself. “No, I—” He interrupts _himself_ this time, and swallows. “Thanks, but—no.”

Ms. Babej’s eyes narrow as she searches his face. “ _No_ as in, you have enough letters, or _no_ as in…?”

“I’m not applying,” Theo answers automatically, even as a corner of his mind is shouting _lie!_

Ms. Babej blinks. “Oh,” she says, clearly surprised. “Oh, is it…?”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish; the bell rings. They both jolt, _hard_ , and then spend a few seconds staring at each other. 

“I should—” Theo starts to say.

“Mr. Raeken—” Ms. Babej tries.

But Theo is already moving towards the door. “Thanks for the exam. And the offer,” he adds quickly. “I appreciate it.”

“Mr. Raeken!” Ms. Babej yells after him, but Theo doesn’t stop. 

He also doesn’t go to his next class. Instead he heads to the school parking lot, and climbs into his truck, and slams the door shut so that he’s alone in the cab. Once there, he spends a few seconds just breathing, and then he groans and drops his left elbow onto the handle of his door, and covers his face with his hand. 

It causes the leather of Argent’s bracelet to rub across his cheek. Theo jolts at first, and then he settles back down with a rough exhale, turning his face further _against_ the bracelet so that it’s brushing the skin of his lips; so that it’s tucked up right underneath his nose.

It smells like leather, and his own sweat, and the subtle sharp spark of magic. Theo keeps it pressed up against his face for a few seconds longer, and then he leans over, and pops the glove compartment of his truck. 

Pulling the folded-up map out is the work of a moment. Unfolding it over the passenger seat takes another. Theo stares down at it, the bracelet still visible out of the corner of his eye, and flicks his eyes over the little series of _Xs_ marking it.

 _Nevada first_ , he tells himself, once and then again.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Brett** _

Brett has to ride with the rest of his team in the bus the night of their game against Beacon Hills, but Lori is waiting when he steps outside into the high school’s parking lot.

“Hey!” She greets loudly, waving briefly before barreling right into his chest. 

He catches her with an _oof_ and laughs quietly, even as something restless in him starts to settle as he gets an unavoidable mouthful of her scent; her floral shampoo and fruity lip gloss and something deeper, more earthy; all her own. Closing his eyes, he lets himself press his face and nose briefly to the top of her head, but that’s all he lets himself get away with in so public—and populated—a space; he straightens up.

“Hey,” he parrots back, and grins at her when she grins at him. 

A gaggle of her friends is standing a few feet away, holding a sign and giggling as they sneak glances at him and whisper behind the hands they hover in front of their mouths. It does nothing to actually prevent Brett from hearing them, and this time when he grins, it’s wide and sly and more than a little smarmy. 

Lori smacks him. “Stop that.”

Brett twists away from her smacking hand. “Ow,” he complains. She hits him again, probably because he’s still grinning. Dancing back a few steps, Brett nods towards the sign in her friends’ hands. “That right there is a work of art,” he tells her, mock-serious, thus earning it when she yells in outrage and hits him multiple times in succession this time.

“Be _nice_ ,” she orders. “We had to steal the supplies from the theater kids, and you know how they can be.”

Brett fakes a shudder; Lori laughs, loud and bright. 

She also dives back into him. “We should go grab seats, but good luck tonight, okay?” She whispers, glancing up at him with her chin still digging into his chest.

Most of the playfulness had dropped away from her expression, her demeanor; when she wishes him luck it sounds a lot more like _be careful_. Brett’s own expression softens, and he runs a gentle hand down her face and smiles shakily before leaning forward to drop a loud, smacking kiss on her forehead. Lori flails and pulls back with a noise of disgust and rolls her eyes as she starts to turn back for her friends, but her scent clears some. Brett watches her go, waving and then smirking absently as it causes a number of her friends to break into high-pitched giggles again.

The rest of his teammates had kept heading towards the field; Brett looks up as Grossman yells his name and gets partway through yelling _what the fuck_ before he catches the warning look on their coach’s face and cuts off right before the profanity. Brett smirks again.

“Forgot something,” he yells back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the bus. “Be there in a second.”

He’s on the bus by himself for maybe two full minutes before he hears the doors open again. Sequestered in the back, Brett stiffens, and then he exhales out roughly as his eyes slip closed.

“What are you doing here?” He calls.

Theo shrugs as he starts making his way leisurely down the aisle; Brett can see his shoulders, limned in street- and moonlight, move. “I think that’s my line,” he answers easily.

He also keeps coming until he’s standing right in front of Brett, who’d huddled himself back a little in the last row of seats, his feet planted in the aisle. It means that when Theo stops, they’re not only toe-to-toe but _past_ that; Theo’s knees slot just slightly in between his own. Brett glances up at him to find Theo looking thoughtfully down at him in return, his hands tucked into his pockets.

But as Brett watches, he slides them out, and crouches down so that he’s balanced on the balls of his feet and looking _up_ at Brett instead; Brett feels his breath catch. Theo’s expression doesn’t change but his eyes narrow, slightly; he’d caught the catch.

“Theo…” Brett murmurs warningly, then: “What are you _doing?_ ”

Theo studies his face for a few seconds, and then the corners of his lips kick up. “Dog-sitting,” he answers, but his tone’s all wrong for the insult; too soft, all the sharp edges sanded away to just leave—something. Brett has an idea what but shoves the thought away before he can name it.

Theo’s close enough that he and Brett are breathing the same air, their exhales mingling between their chests. With Theo crouched so low every time Brett breathes out it ruffles the top of Theo’s hair; Theo makes a slight face, one eye closing, and tips his head to the side like he was trying to avoid it. It exposes the long slope of the side of his neck, down to the shadow of his collarbone disappearing into his shirt. Brett feels something clench _hard_ in his chest.

“I know what you’re doing,” Brett tells him hoarsely, his voice _croaking_. 

Theo drops the innocent act, but he doesn’t straighten his head. “You want me to stop?” He asks quietly. 

Brett stares at him, that thing in his chest now _twisting_ , but: “No,” he admits. 

Over Theo’s shoulder and through the bus’ windows, Brett can see the exact spot where he’d been standing when Monroe had snapped his own lacrosse stick and shoved it between his ribs. Shuddering out a breath, Brett closes his eyes, but they almost immediately snap back open when he hears the quiet sounds of Theo shifting, and then feels Theo’s hands on his knees. He looks down.

Theo looks up at him, now kneeling between Brett’s spread knees and close enough that he and Brett are nearly chest-to-chest. His head is still tilted slightly to the side. Brett stares at him, and then he feels his expression twist as he surges forward and wraps one hand around the opposite side of Theo’s neck and his other around Theo’s shoulder, pulling him in at the same time that he buries his face in the side of Theo’s offered neck. 

Theo shudders, too; Brett feels it echo along his own spine.

“I guess I’m not the only one suffering the consequences of sleeping with an alpha, huh?” He murmurs, and he’s _trying_ to be an asshole. He’s just not succeeding; his voice is too shaky.

“Shut up,” Brett mumbles, and turns his face more completely into the curve of Theo’s neck.

Theo shudders again, and does. 

_**Liam** _

Liam knows something is seriously fucking weird the third time Brett goes down _hard_ on the field because of _somebody from his own team_.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Liam hisses at him in the middle of the next play. “Why is your own team fouling you?” 

That’s something of an exaggeration—it’s not the entirety of the Devenford team that’s fouling him, more like one asshole in particular and maybe two of the asshole’s friends—but Liam doesn’t have time to be that eloquent; Nolan manages to intercept a pass from one of the Devenford players and _rockets it_ at Liam’s head, and he has to focus on not getting, you know, the world’s shortest and least-easily-explainable concussion. 

By the time the play wraps—two-zero, Beacon Hills—Brett has been fouled a _fourth_ time. Admittedly it looks like an accident—Devenford had been scrambling hard to try and make up for the interception—but Liam’s not an _idiot_ , and apparently neither is Brett; his eyes underneath his mask are red with frustration. Liam is already close, thank god; he hustles over to him and offers him a hand up in the spirit of good sportspersonship—and, you know, the ability to warn _your fucking eyes, dude_ —as Brett accepts his hand and Liam hauls him up.

“Brett!” He hisses.

Brett’s upper lip curls in a snarl, but his teeth are blunt. “What?” He spits, dropping the shift. “Like you’ve never had a member of your team try to kill you?” 

He looks pointedly over Liam’s shoulder at where Nolan is uncertainly hovering; Nolan flushes—Liam can’t see it, but he can hear his pulse jump—and quickly finds somewhere else to be. Liam just frowns at Brett, about to open his mouth to keep pressing, but.

“Dunbar!” Coach yells, and follows it up with a piercing whistle that feels like it’s just a few short decibels from making Liam’s ears _bleed_. “What the hell are you doing? In case you’ve forgotten, _you_ _don’t_ _play for that team anymore!_ ”

Liam bites off a frustrated sound, but—after glancing one last time at Brett—he hurries away, back to the starting line. Brett takes up his own position, and the game resumes.

But Devenford’s lacrosse team being full of self-righteous little jackasses—a fact which Liam is well and personally acquainted with—isn’t Brett’s only problem, Liam realizes. _Something around here is triggering you_ , Liam remembers Theo snapping at him that day at the zoo. At the time it’d sounded like complete bullshit—just more of Theo’s head-games—but Liam thinks he _gets it_ , now, as he watches Brett’s eyes dart around the field; as he listens to Brett’s heart pound and race and skip. All of it could be explained by the game they’re playing, but Liam—is pretty sure the game, and even Brett’s asshole teammates, aren’t the cause.

He looks, helplessly and reflexively, up into the stands, and finds Theo already looking back, his expression pinched.

Liam chews his lip, and then he yells, “Time-out!”

“What!” Coach screeches. “You can’t—he can’t—!” 

But the referee is already calling it, punctuated by a sharp blow of his whistle. Liam jogs over to the little circle of his teammates already forming. Nolan frees himself of his helmet just as Liam reaches them, and gives him a curious look. Liam sighs and unbuckles his own helmet, and rips it off.

“Okay,” he announces, looking around at his teammates. “New plan.”

“Well, that’s certainly—different,” Anderson says, blinking, after Liam has finished explaining.

“That’s _idiotic_ ,” Markell counters. “Talbot’s their _best player_. Why _wouldn’t_ we want him out of the game?”

“I _know_ ,” Liam tries. “But, _listen—_ ”

His attempted line of reasoning gets drowned out by a wave of his teammates agreeing with Markell, or generally-confused grumbling. Liam groans and looks heavenward, and nearly clocks himself in the head with his helmet as he goes to drag his hands down his face before remembering he’s holding it.

“ _Hey!_ ” He finally yells, interrupting them. 

They fall reluctantly silent. Liam glares at them for a few seconds before starting to speak again.

“Remember—” _that time you all tried to kill me_ “—how you all owe me?” He says, with that middle, unspoken part _heavily implied_. 

They all freeze, their expressions going a mixture of guilty and poleaxed. Finally Markell nods. 

“Okay, then!” Liam concludes. “ _So_. New plan, then!” He puts his hand into the center of their circle and glares pointedly around until the rest of his teammates follow suit, and then they break: _one, two, three_.

Attempting to win the game while _also_ protecting Brett from his own teammates does turn out to be, as predicted, something of a fucking nightmare. Liam takes primary responsibility for guarding Brett, which is immeasurably complicated by the fact that Liam has to do his best to make it look like he _isn’t_ doing exactly what he’s doing. It doesn’t help that Brett realizes what he’s up to _fast_ , and hisses _Dunbar_ in the middle of one of the plays.

“Consider it self-preservation,” Liam hisses back, and darts away to intercept one of the Devenford players—Dudek, he vaguely remembers; he’s pretty sure it’s Dudek—before he can ‘accidentally’ shoulder-check Brett.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Brett shouts at his back, but Liam just ignores him.

The added mental—and physical—stress of playing _and_ guarding Brett exhausts him quickly. By the time they’re entering the fourth quarter, Liam’s panting, his hands braced on his knees during their last time-out. 

“Uh, Liam,” Nolan tries. Liam just tips his head to glare at him; Nolan holds up his hands in surrender.

“Okay!” Liam says, sucking in a deep breath and straightening. “Let’s bring this home.”

Beacon Hills is going to win; it’s all but a guarantee. That’s great for Liam from one perspective and fucking terrible from another, because it means Dudek and his two cronies give up entirely on pretending to play the game, and focus instead on coming at Brett, and _hard_. 

“What the fuck is wrong with them?” Liam snarls at Brett after they manage to avoid a particularly hairy potential crash. Brett just shrugs, roughly, and spins away from him to go form up; Liam snaps his teeth around a frustrated sound, and does the same.

They almost make it. They’re _two minutes and forty-five seconds_ away from making it, and then Dudek—under the guise of making a particularly terrible attempt at a catch—cracks his stick up and across Liam’s torso, and his stick snaps in half. It’s possible that he’d been going for Brett and Liam had just gotten in the way, or it’s possible that Dudek had realized what Liam had been up to, too, and decided to gain his own sort of payback; either way, Liam hisses a surprised, sharp sound as the jagged edges of Dudek’s broken stick tear across his uniform, ripping it, and stumbles away.

Coach is already screaming and several of Liam’s teammates have already converged on Dudek, gloves thrown down and hands thrown _up_ , but Liam barely notices; Dudek had hit him hard enough that the jagged edges of his stick had actually cut _through_ his jersey _and_ his skin, and he’s bleeding. _Fuck_ , Liam thinks, touching his fingers to his bloody—but already healed—side.

And then he looks up, because someone’s heartbeat goes _wild_. 

“Oh, shit,” he actually says out loud, and then he jerks, because the referee and Coach are heading his way. 

Thinking fast, Liam rips off his helmet and presses it against his bloody side, using it to hide both the tear in his uniform _and_ his should-be-but-isn’t wounded side. 

“I’m okay!” He yells preemptively, and waves his stick high up in the air to demonstrate. “I’m fine! No harm, no—well not _no foul_ , clearly—”

He gets cut off in the general cacophony of the chaos. Coach and the Devenford coach are taking turns screaming at each other and the unfortunate Dudek, who’d been rescued somewhat worse-for-wear from Liam’s teammates by his own. They don’t look happy with him, though; even his two cronies keep edging away from him, like his unpopularity might be catching. 

“I’m gonna,” Liam announces, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder; he makes eye-contact with Corey as he does, who nods. Grimacing, Liam tucks his stick underneath his other arm—keeping his helmet firmly in place as he does—and then uses his now-free hand to grab Brett’s forearm. “Brett’s going to come with me,” Liam continues to anyone who might be listening, or maybe just the universe at large, “as a gesture of, you know, goodwill between our two teams.”

Brett stumbles along too-easily after him. His breathing is too-fast and his eyes are dilated, and for all that he’s following along after Liam well enough, his body is _rigid_ with tension. Liam grimaces, and shoulders through the doors leading into the school so he can drag Brett the rest of the way to the locker rooms.

Once there, he shoves Brett into the middle of the room and retrieves his bag from his locker before stripping off his jersey, and throwing it inside. That done, he hurries over to the sink to wet a paper towel and quickly wipe down his side, before pulling the shirt he’d been wearing earlier that day back over his head. The paper towels he throws into the trash can, and then—all potentially supernaturally-incriminating evidence taken care of—he blows out a huge breath, and turns back to Brett.

He has his hands over his mouth, and his fingers digging into the bridge of his nose. His claws aren’t present and Liam can’t see—or sense—the flare of his eyes, but his scent’s a riot and his pulse is still rabbit-fast. 

“Brett…?” He ventures.

Brett grimaces, and drops his hands. “I’m fine,” he says, and in attempting to sound aggressively normal he sounds everything but. 

Liam stares at him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

But that’s as far as he gets. The locker room door slams open and Lori bursts through, followed closely by Theo. Liam stares at the latter, caught.

“Hey,” he greets blankly.

Theo glances at Brett—who’s wrapped around Lori, and has his face buried in her hair—and then at Liam. “Hey,” he parrots back quietly as he comes to stand next to Liam, and close enough that their shoulders are almost brushing. “Good thinking out there,” Theo adds, after a second, and Liam feels himself flushing, and shrugs.

But Brett must overhear him. “I’m _fine_ , you assholes.”

“Clearly,” Theo snorts back, and Liam feels his brow furrow as Theo and Brett look at each other; there’s a level of familiarity there that he hadn’t been expecting. He stares.

But then they’re interrupted _again_ ; Liam’s team comes pouring through the locker room doors—Corey making an apologetic face and shrugging when Liam catches his eye—and then Coach, the Devenford coach, and the referee all spill in after them.

It takes a while to get everything sorted out, but once the referee determines that Liam isn’t actually injured—Liam looking briefly heavenward as he holds back a relieved sigh, his clean shirt lifted up to show him—they collectively agree to chalk up the whole incident to a freak accident; Beacon Hills had won, after all. The locker room slowly empties out as everyone returns to the field to officially call the game, though Liam lingers long enough to make eye-contact with Brett, whose jaw just tightens, before he nods and follows everyone else back out.

Even once the game is officially called and declared over, it takes some time for the field to empty out; this is the most exciting thing to happen to Beacon Hills in a while, after all. Liam feels something bitter twist in his chest. But he lets the rest of his team jostle him and pull him under their arms as they declare what assholes the Devenford players to be, and retroactively bless his plan as having been genius because _what the fuck is wrong with those guys, anyway?_

By the time Liam manages to untangle himself from his teammates and briefly break away, most of the spectators have packed up, and the Devenford team is trooping back to their bus. Liam jogs after them, and calls Brett’s name. Brett stops, and turns to look at him.

“You can’t seriously be riding back with the guy who just tried to _maim_ you,” Liam says incredulously.

Brett just shrugs. “Freak accident, remember?” 

Liam rolls his eyes, but. He looks critically at Brett. “You okay?”

Brett just smirks and looks away, eyes rolling in turn. “I’m not one of your _damsels_ , Liam.” Something sly crosses his face, and he adds, “I’m not _Raeken_. I don’t need rescuing.”

Liam flushes and glares. “God, I forgot what an _asshole_ you can be,” he complains. Brett grins again, and it’s a little less of a put-on, this time. Liam bites his lip. “Actually, he says. “Speaking of Theo…”

Brett looks at him expectantly. Liam flushes again.

“Look, everyone decided that we need to like, go out and celebrate, or whatever,” he explains, all in a rush. Brett just raises his eyebrows, clearly unsure why Liam’s telling him this. Liam grimaces. “If you see Theo tonight, can you tell him that’s where I went? He has this, like, weird habit of just ignoring his phone sometimes, and we were supposed to hang out, so.”

Brett studies him for a few seconds, and then he says, “Sure.”

There’s something to the way he says it—something lingering, and speculative, like he’s figuring something out even as he’s agreeing—and Liam frowns. But someone calls Brett’s name and waves impatiently at him from the doorway of the bus when Brett glances over his shoulder, and by the time he looks back, whatever-it-was is gone.

“See you later, Liam,” Brett tells him. He starts to turn away, and then pauses, his lip between his teeth. “And, thanks.” Liam stares, a little taken aback, at least before Brett adds, “Your intervention was completely unnecessary, but thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever, asshole,” Liam answers, rolling his eyes. “You are _unnecessarily welcome_ , then.”

Brett grins. He also waves, and turns and jogs the rest of the way to the Devenford bus, climbing inside without another word. Liam watches him go, and stares after the bus until it disappears from the parking lot, and someone yells his name from back by the school.

“Yeah,” Liam yells back, his eyes drifting back to where Brett and the bus had disappeared. “Coming.”

_**Theo** _

Brett manages to beat Theo back to their apartments primarily by dint of Argent calling Theo after the game wraps, and demanding a check-in.

“He was fine,” Theo had loudly insisted, multiple times, to Argent’s skeptical face on the other side of the McCall house kitchen island. “Liam helped manage some of the hairier moments, but Brett was _fine_.”

“At the end of the game,” Argent had pressed, and for a split-second Theo had wondered who Argent had really been evaluating, “with the broken stick—”

“There’s no way,” Theo had shot back, “that you don’t recognize a _trauma reaction_ when you see it. You know what happened to him at that school.”

Argent had just watched him, considering, and in playing back his own tone Theo had gone a little cold; he’d sounded too defensive. He’d sounded too _invested_.

But Argent had eventually just shrugged, and nodded: _case closed_. “Fine,” he’d said, and Theo had left before he could stick his foot any further down his own throat.

Back at his apartment complex and sitting in the parking lot still in his darkened truck—his keys removed from the dash—Theo spends a few moments with his left hand pressed over his face, just breathing. But it’s a cold night, and the cab cools fast, and Theo is, abruptly, so _goddamn sick_ of being cold. He gets out.

But if he wants to get into his apartment, he’s going to have to go through Brett, who’s sat on the steps into the lobby with his elbows on his knees.

“Christ,” Theo can’t help immediately complaining, eyes rolling heavenward. “ _What?_ ”

Brett just grins, and shifts so that he’s leaning back on his elbows on the top step. “Hello to you, too.”

Theo could continue having whatever conversation Brett is clearly determined to have out here on the stoop, or he could walk past him and have it _inside_ when Brett inevitably follows him. He chooses the latter.

As expected, Brett tailgates him through the doorway. “I was a little surprised you didn’t find a way to insert yourself into the game tonight. Falling down on your dog-sitting duties?”

Theo gives him a dry look over his own shoulder as he heads down the hallway towards the stairwell. “Liam had it handled.”

He’s expecting a smart remark. He’s _not_ expecting the thoughtful noise from Brett’s throat, or the way he murmurs, “Yeah, he did, didn’t he?”

Theo stops, abruptly, and turns to face Brett head-on. They’re in the stairwell now but it’s empty, just the two of them on the landing and no one on the rest of the floors. “What does that mean?” Theo demands, searching Brett’s face.

Brett doesn’t reply right away, and when he does, it’s not to answer Theo’s question. “He wanted me to tell you he got dragged into a post-game celebration, that that’s why he couldn’t hang out.”

Theo feels his own brow furrow. “Yeah, I knew that. He texted me.”

Brett’s mouth just stretches in a smirk. “Oh, did you look at your phone? He said sometimes you don’t.”

Theo flushes, caught. “Fuck you,” he snaps, and starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time in an admittedly-doomed effort to leave Brett behind.

Brett does follow him, but by some miracle he doesn’t say anything else until they actually reach Theo’s door, and Theo unlocks it and steps inside. He does catch it when Theo attempts to slam it in his face—more out of principle than because he thought it was going to work—and slides inside after Theo, eyeing the carving by the door as it briefly flares before settling back to its quiescent state. Ignoring him for the moment, Theo tosses his keys onto the counter dividing his living room and kitchen and starts working his wallet and phone out of his pockets.

“Can you get to the point of this visit?” Theo requests testily as he drops them onto the counter next to keys. His phone screen lights briefly up; he has a new text from Liam. He ignores it.

But the quality of Brett’s silence doesn’t make sense for the dig, or smart comment, or whatever, that Theo’s expecting. Instead, when Theo glances up at him, curious and with his brow furrowed, Brett is studying him, expression oddly somber. _What?_ , Theo nearly demands, and then—doesn’t.

“I get it, now,” he finally says, apropos of absolutely _nothing_ ; Theo stares. Brett seems to catch his confusion because he looks away, lip folding briefly between his teeth. “Liam. He’s not the same angry, hair-trigger temper prick I used to know.” He looks back at Theo and repeats, “I get it, now.”

Theo feels his jaw tighten. “Nice of you to notice,” he spits out. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t get _you_ ,” Brett snaps back, tone suddenly sharp like a confession and forceful enough that it seems to practically _explode_ out of him. He stares at Theo, his eyes scouring Theo’s face. “He looks at you the same way you look at him.” Theo feels his expression go slack with surprise, and then his whole body go cold, but Brett isn’t done. “You can hear it in his voice, see it all over his face.”

Theo isn’t exactly cornered—he’s got the rest of his apartment that he could theoretically retreat into—but Brett is still standing in front of his door. Theo works his jaw, and barely stops the fingers of his right hand—left on the counter when he’d set his wallet down—from punching five deep holes in the fake granite as his claws prickle at his fingertips. His gums ache, too; he swallows, and forces the pressure of his fangs down with the movement of his throat.

“So what?” Theo challenges, ignoring the way that it cracks a little as it leaves his tight throat.

“So what are you _doing_ here, Theo?” Brett challenges right back, and this time he comes off of the door and several steps into the apartment as he stares Theo down. 

Theo barely manages to hold his ground as Brett gets up close, and into his space. “You _know_ what I’m—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Brett orders sharply, cutting him off. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

They’re close enough that they’re sharing the same air; close enough that Theo can smell him. Sweat from the game that he hasn’t had time to shower off, yet, the plasticky-sharp sting in Theo’s nose of the scent of his pads and his jersey, but underneath all of that, just his _scent_ ; something in Theo’s gut reflexively tightens that he ruthlessly shoves down. He steps back.

“What fairytale ending are you imagining here, Brett?” Theo finally snaps. “ _Come on_. You’re not this naive.”

“ _I’m_ not this naive?” Brett repeats incredulously, and at volume. “You’re the one who—”

“Look, you want an answer? It doesn’t matter!” Theo interrupts, all but yelling now to be heard over Brett. Brett cuts off with a surprised look, and stares. “How Liam looks at me,” Theo continues, the words _sawing_ at his throat even as he says them, “or how I—I look at him, it doesn’t matter.” Theo bites off a frustrated noise and presses the heel of one palm to his forehead, digging in. “Just because something _is_ , doesn’t mean it can be. Doesn’t mean it _should_ be.”

Brett’s eyes just narrow as they rove over Theo’s face. “The fuck does that mean?”

Theo’s too exhausted to keep meeting Brett’s gaze; he twists so that he can plant his elbows on the counter with his keys and wallet and phone, and covers his face with his hands. “It means Liam deserves better,” he answers hoarsely, and scrubs his palms over skin.

But he freezes when Brett just says, “Isn’t that Liam’s decision?”

Theo tips his head to look at Brett. “No,” he replies after a moment, voice hard; ringing with finality. “In this case, it’s mine.”

Brett doesn’t look satisfied. He snorts, and glances away. “So it’s not that Liam deserves better, really,” he translates. His eyes flick back to Theo’s. “It’s that _you_ don’t deserve _him_.”

Something _shears_ in Theo’s chest, and he flinches bodily. But: “Sure,” he agrees dully, “that’s what it means.” 

He shoves himself upright, after, and starts making his unsteady way over to the couch. It’s a dismissal, and one that Theo assumes Brett will correctly interpret eventually; either way, he’s too tired to keep fighting with him. Shoving his comforter out of the way, Theo drops down onto the couch and then puts his hands back over his face, breathing into his palms just for the way it briefly seems to black out the sensory noise of the rest of his apartment; Brett’s scent and Brett’s heartbeat and the way that he hasn’t moved at all.

But, footsteps, and then the couch dips as Brett sits down next to him. But not _next_ to him: he’s far enough away that Theo can’t feel his heat. 

But he can sure as hell feel it when Brett stretches out a hand, and touches the barest press of his fingertips to the back of Theo’s neck. Theo shudders.

“I know what you’re doing,” Theo informs him hoarsely, echoing Brett’s words from earlier that same night.

Brett doesn’t shift away. Instead he just murmurs, “You want me to stop?,” just like _Theo_ had asked _him_.

And Theo—he shudders, and admits, “No,” in the same quiet, confessional tone that Brett had used. 

And then he shudders again when Brett slides his hand down, so that his fingertips aren’t just brushing the skin of Theo’s neck, but _gripping_. 

_**Brett** _

Brett looks up as a shadow falls across the table he’s working at, and winds up having to squint one eye closed to combat the bright halo of sunlight ringing Theo’s head.

“What are you doing here?” He wonders.

Theo shrugs easily, and swings around so that he can drop down next to Brett on the picnic table’s bench seat. “I,” he announces portentously, “was sent.”

“What?” Brett replies reflexively, but then he catches a whiff of the scent clinging to Theo’s clothes—specifically, the fabric right over his wrist—and he frowns thoughtfully and glances around, like Lori would be hiding in a bush lining the school’s courtyard or something. He catches himself quickly and snorts quietly, amused at his own idiotic behavior, and looks back down.

But he apparently forgets to answer Theo’s implied question, because Theo—who’d slouched over the table, one arm bent and his head propped up lazily on the attached hand—flicks the edge of Brett’s tablet pointedly so that it spins annoyingly around, and raises his eyebrows when Brett turns to glare at him. “Why is your sister—who _hates_ me, by the way—hunting me down to force me to come check on you?”

Brett rolls his eyes. “Lori doesn’t _hate_ you,” he counters. Then he stops, and considers. “She might still be holding a grudge for the first time you ‘helped’ me, though.”

The expression on Theo’s face goes briefly pensive, like he’s recalling a fond memory. “Oh, yeah,” he says, smirking. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Brett _sincerely_ doubts that. He rolls his eyes again. This time, Theo doesn’t just flick his tablet; he drops his whole palm over the top of it. 

“ _Brett_ ,” he presses. “Why am I here, under pain of your sister doing something drastic—or at the very least irritating—to me?”

Brett makes an aggrieved noise, and physically _lifts_ Theo’s hand off his tablet, and deposits it back in front of him. Theo lets him easily enough, which is something of a surprise in and of itself. But he doesn’t stop _looking_ expectantly at Brett, so finally Brett sighs and hooks a finger around the far edge of his tablet so that he can slide it across the table, towards Theo.

Theo catches it, and looks down at the screen. It’d started to darken with the inactivity and so he reaches forward and taps it, and then—as the text on screen lights up—almost immediately leans farther forward, his smarmy expression dropping away to be replaced with intrigue. He spends a half-minute or so scrolling through the document that Brett had had open, and then he taps the tablet’s home button twice and spends a few seconds flicking his eyes over the other apps Brett has open. 

“Damn,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess it is that time of year.”

Brett frowns at him. “You know about all this?”

Theo glances up at him. “The treaty renewals? Yeah.” He sits up some, and bumps the tablet so that it slides back towards Brett. “They’re always associated with the various supermoons, when most of them were originally made. And also,” he adds dryly, “because werewolf packs just cannot _help_ but be roving clichés.”

Brett snorts, because the same thought may have crossed his mind. He taps the darkened tablet screen so that it lights up again, his eyes flicking over the text. “I never had to care about any of this shit,” he confesses quietly; Theo glances over at him, but Brett keeps his eyes on the screen. “The ceremonies were always like, _parties_ , you know? At least for the younger members of the packs involved. We’d run around all night and eat so much food that we were practically in _comas_ by the time dawn came, but we never… But _I_ never…” He covers his face with his hands.

“Even when you got older?” Theo wonders, and it’s not a criticism, but a genuine question. “Satomi never…?” He cuts himself off fast, looking immediately regretful that he’d brought up her name.

But Brett had already started shaking his head. “Do you _know_ how far down the list I was when it came to being the next alpha? It would have been a giant waste of everyone’s time. It would never have _occurred_ to anyone that—” He swallows, hard, and doesn’t finish.

Theo doesn’t say anything, but he does shift in his seat, some; it leaves the outside of his knee pressed up against Brett’s thigh. Brett feels his expression spasm. He slides his hands up to rake back through and then clutch at his hair, and stares down at his tablet, now dark.

“Filipo delayed as long as he could, but—” Brett explains quietly.

“—the supermoons happen when the supermoons happen,” Theo concludes, just as softly. Brett looks over at him, and nods.

Theo continues to search his face, and then abruptly he sits up, fully, and reaches back for Brett’s tablet. “Well, okay,” he starts to say, and then makes a face when he realizes it’d locked. 

He wags it in Brett’s face until Brett, annoyed, grabs it and presses his thumb over the home button to unlock it. That done, Theo brings it back in front of himself, and starts scrolling through the documents again. He keeps scrolling until he apparently finds whatever he’d been looking for, and then he spins the tablet around on the table so that it’s facing Brett, and taps his finger at one section of text.

“Look, when you set aside all the grandiose word choice and legalese, all these treaties really say are that two packs agree not to go to war with each other, and that any individual altercations between pack members are treated as such, rather than full-on declarations of hostilities,” Theo says, his eyes on Brett’s face like he’s checking to make sure Brett’s following. 

Brett gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes,” he agrees, with exaggerated patience. “You don’t say.”

Theo makes a face right back. “ _You’re_ the one acting like you’re being asked to negotiate the end of World War II,” he points out. Brett sneers. 

“What’s your point, Raeken?” He demands, but his annoyance is barely annoyance; the exasperation in the way he says Theo’s last name is almost _fond_ ; something in his chest twists.

“ _My point is_ ,” Theo says, sounding a little _aggrieved_ , of all things, but pettily so; Brett can’t help grinning, “that these ceremonies are essentially what you already said they are. _Parties_. Excuses to get two packs together to get to know one another. The treaties themselves are...set dressing.”

Brett’s interested despite himself. “Okay. So?”

“ _So_ ,” Theo continues, and indicates the tablet again. “All _you_ have to do is memorize a few lines, repeat them in front of a crowd, and then spend the rest of the night stuffing your face with whatever ceremonial food you all eat at one of these things.”

“Mooncakes,” Brett answers immediately, his mind filling, suddenly, with the sense memory of standing on a stool in Satomi’s kitchen, helping her mold the dough. He’d been—seven, maybe? He can’t help the soft, helpless smile that curves his lips. “And pears,” he adds, remembering; god, Lori and Tierney had eaten so many pears one year that they’d made themselves _sick_.

When he comes blinking back to himself and shoots a look at Theo, flushing, Theo is staring at him, his mouth dropped softly open and his expression a little—a little raw. But the second Theo realizes that he has Brett’s attention he blinks several times and clears his throat, looking away. 

“So there you go,” he concludes, and shoves Brett’s tablet back towards him as he starts to stand. “Easy.”

Brett catches Theo’s arm before he’s consciously thought about it. Theo freezes, and jerks his head around to stare. Brett swallows.

“Thanks,” he says, a little croakily. _He_ clears _his_ throat. “Just—thanks.”

Theo just keeps staring, and then he jolts a little, and twists his wrist gently free of Brett’s grip. “Don’t mention it,” he says, as he starts to walk away, and maybe it was meant to, but it doesn’t come off as a throwaway line. 

It comes across, instead, like Theo is really _asking_.

Brett watches him go until he disappears from sight, the warmth from Theo’s skin only slowly fading from his fingertips.

_**Liam** _

Liam comes back from microwaving another bag of popcorn, and finds Theo passed on on his half of the couch. 

“Oh,” he says stupidly, and chews his lip a little.

His mom looks up at him from the loveseat. She’d sort of sat on top of his dad as a joke when she’d gotten home from work—primarily because she’d known it’d make Liam squawk and complain about his _virgin eyes_ —but then she hadn’t moved; they’re still curled up together, with his dad fast asleep as well.

“Seriously?” She whispers quietly, clearly amused. “He’s been like that for the last twenty minutes.”

So _that_ was why Theo hadn’t responded to any of his scintillating movie commentary; Liam flushes. He opens his mouth to say something smart back, and then stops, his eyes flicking to Theo. Finally he just makes a silent face at his mom, and goes to gingerly lower himself back down onto the other side of the couch, his attention fixed on any sign or hint of Theo stirring. But he must be pretty firmly out; he doesn’t so much as twitch.

There’s another half-hour or so left in the movie. Liam watches it, but absently, the rest of his focus on eating single kernels of popcorn at a time, as quietly as possible, so that the crunching doesn’t disturb Theo. He’s not exactly sure he could explain _why_ he’s so determined not to wake Theo up, at least until he suddenly _has_ to.

The movie finishes, and his mom leans forward to grab the remote off the arm of her’s and his dad’s loveseat, and pauses it as the credits start to roll. She straightens up some, and stretches.

“Alright,” she announces, though softly, and pokes a little at his dad’s face; his expression scrunches up. “Time to go to _actual_ bed.” But she looks up at Liam afterwards, and frowns. “Liam?”

Liam jolts, and colors as he realizes he’d been staring at Theo’s still-sleeping face. He glances over at his mom, and grimaces. “It’s just…I really don’t want to wake him up,” he confesses quietly, and then: “He doesn’t sleep very well, usually,” offered in explanation.

His mom just frowns again, and glances from Liam to Theo and back again. “Then don’t wake him up,” she concludes easily. “David and I don’t care if he stays. Right, David?” She pokes Liam’s dad in the face again.

“What? Yes, we don’t care at all,” he mumbles. And then he seems to wake up a little and blinks up at Liam’s mom. “Wait, what don’t we care about?”

Liam’s mom just rolls her eyes, and starts hauling him upwards, and pushing him towards the stairs. “Night, Liam,” she calls softly.

“Night,” Liam answers as they finish disappearing up the stairs, and then he turns back to Theo, pulling a section of his inner-lip between his teeth and chewing on it. Theo has his head tilted to the side on the back of the cushions, and his arms crossed over his chest, and in the dim light of the paused credits sequence, the leather of his— _Argent’s_ —bracelet gleams dully. “Shit,” Liam swears softly, and then he scrambles carefully to his feet.

The concrete of the back porch is fucking _cold_ under his toes as he steps outside, and slides the door back shut. He hisses a bit, and hops from foot to foot until he can reach the grass, which isn’t _that_ much better in terms of temperature, but at least feels less sharp. He pulls out his phone.

Argent doesn’t sound thrilled when he answers. “What, Liam? This had better be an emergency.”

Liam frowns, and then brings his phone down from his ear to check the time, and blanches. “Uh, shit,” he says blankly, pretty much giving the game away right there, and he can hear Argent’s aggrieved sigh even before he puts his phone back to his ear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean… Sorry.”

“What is it?” Argent presses, now sounding resigned.

Liam bites his lip, and twists some so he can look back into the house. “It’s just, um.” He’d _meant_ to call and ask for permission, but abruptly he switches tracks. “You can’t be mad at him, okay!” He insists, sounding a little hysterical for all that he’s trying to make a reasoned demand.

“What?” Argent replies. “Mad at _who?_ ”

“ _Theo!_ ” Liam blurts out. “We were watching a movie and he fell asleep, okay, and he usually sleeps like shit and so I don’t want to wake him up, but—” Liam’s aware that he’s not putting his best foot forward, here. He can’t seem to help himself.

“Liam,” Argent cuts him off, with exaggerated and clearly stretched-thin patience, “why are you telling me this?”

Liam glares out at the fence closing in his backyard like he’s glaring directly at Argent. “Because of your stupid _bracelet_ , and—and jail-warden _carving_ in his apartment. I know it like, keeps track of him or whatever, and if he doesn’t go back to Devenford tonight—”

“I don’t care,” Argent interrupts. “If he doesn’t go back to Devenford tonight, then I _really don’t care_.”

_That_ throws Liam. “What?” He says blankly. “But, before, when you were explaining the whole deal, you said—”

Argent groans, and there’s a scratching sound like he’s scrubbing the heel of his palm over his late-night stubble. “That was _weeks_ ago, Liam. I explained that all _weeks_ ago.”

“So?” Liam challenges, because _so?_

Argent gives another of those aggrieved sighs. “So he’s stuck to his end of the deal, mostly, and Brett hasn’t had any hard-to-explain episodes. If he ends up spending a night or two away from his apartment in Devenford then I _don’t care_.”

“...oh,” Liam says finally, because that’s really all he’s got. 

He can practically hear Argent rolling his eyes, or at the very least glaring up at the ceiling; Liam wonders, absently, where Ms. McCall is, and then flushes bright red and immediately stops wondering. “Is that all, Liam? Can I go back to sleep, now?”

“Yes,” Liam agrees immediately, like Argent is actually _asking_ him for permission. “Yes, sure, of cour—wait!” He suddenly exclaims, something occurring to him. The silence on the other end of the line is not particularly impressed. “Wait, does this mean…? Are you going to…?” He swallows, and tries one last time. “Is he going to be let out of the bracelet then, soon?”

Argent doesn’t respond at first, and then he simply says, “Good _night_ , Liam,” and hangs up.

Liam doesn’t take his phone away from his ear, right away. He’s too focused on the sudden squirming frisson of _possibility_ that’d raced up his spine. But it’s fucking _cold_ outside, and Liam hadn’t bothered throwing on a jacket. He puts his phone away, and trots back into the house. 

Theo is still sound asleep. If he wasn’t a chimera Liam would be worried about him feeling the awkward angle of his neck tomorrow, but as it is, Liam just—after a second’s hesitation—carefully retrieves the blanket off of the back of the couch, and unfolds it. Settling it over Theo’s prone body without waking him is an exercise in anxiety, but Liam manages it, and then steps back.

There’s no reason for him to stay downstairs. His room with its _bed_ is waiting, and it’s not like Theo’s going to even notice if Liam leaves him sleeping him in the living room alone. 

Still, there’s another blanket in the ridiculously large wicker basket sat next to the TV for exactly that purpose. Liam grabs it, and retreats to the loveseat his parents had abandoned, and curls up on it, cocooned under his blanket. 

He’d happened to lie down facing Theo. He thinks about turning over—it feels _weird,_ somehow, to keep staring at Theo’s sleep-slack face—but then he doesn’t. 

“Night, Theo,” he whispers, very softly, and forces himself to close his eyes. 

_**Theo** _

Theo wakes up because there’s a shaft of sunlight shining directly onto his face, which makes _no sense whatsoever_ , because the window in his apartment living room faces _west_ ; it doesn’t get direct sunlight in the morning. He blinks his eyes open, and then sits up with a heartfelt swear.

That has the instantaneous consequence of sending _Liam_ scrambling upright, his hair a hilarious mess and his eyes fuzzy with sleep. “What? What’s happening? What’s wrong?” He immediately blurts out, sounding frantic but still sleep-soft. 

Theo whips around to stare at him, the two of them laid-out on opposite sides of the Geyer-Dunbar living room, and then Theo groans, and covers his face. “Damn it, Liam!” He complains, his voice muffled by his palms. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Argent is going to be—”

“—fine!” Liam interjects, high-pitched and a little squeaky, and looks at him with disarmingly wide eyes when Theo drops his hands to stare. He swallows. “Argent will be fine,” he repeats in a more normal tone of voice, and then his eyes flit away as he explains, “I, um. I called him.”

Theo _boggles_ at him, his mouth dropping open in horror. “You did _what?_ ”

Liam grimaces, and then immediately attempts to look brash and unconcerned. “Yeah, I called him. So?” He challenges, and then almost instantly undermines his own attempted suavity by continuing, “You were asleep and it seemed dumb to wake you, and—”

“Jesus,” Theo just groans, and twists sideways so that he can collapse onto his back on the couch. Liam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _drama queen_ ; Theo arches his head back to glare. But.

He bites his lip. “He really said it was fine?”

Liam still looks a little wary, but when he sees Theo’s apparently genuine interest he relaxes a little, and even grins, slightly. “Actually his exact words were _I don’t care_.” He shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance, but he glances away as he adds, “He said you’d been sticking to your deal, and Brett hadn’t had any ‘episodes,’ whatever the fuck that means, so…”

“Huh,” Theo murmurs, and drops his head back down flat so he can squint thoughtfully at the ceiling, because: _huh_.

He can hear Liam shifting on the loveseat. When he arches his head back once more to look at him, Liam has crossed his legs under the blanket he’d been curled up beneath, and he’s playing with his fingers tangled together in his lap. “So,” he says. “Did you, um. Are you hungry? I think we’ve got like, a box of pancake mix in one of the cabinets.” He freezes, looking thoughtfully into the middle distance. “We—might not have an egg, though.”

Theo grins—can’t help at it—at Liam’s overly-serious consideration of their breakfast options. But.

“I should get back,” he says, and as much as he tries to tell himself he doesn’t: he says it regretfully. “I’ve got a paper due tomorrow that’s worth fifteen percent of my final grade, and a lab report to finish.” 

Liam’s face falls, initially, and then he looks sort of guardedly hopeful. “I mean, I’ve got homework, too,” he points out. “You could just do it here.”

Theo’s lips quirk in a small smile before he can stop them. “I don’t have any of my stuff,” he answers softly.

“Oh,” Liam says. “Oh, right.” He looks back down at his hands.

Theo hesitates, and then touches his tongue to his bottom lip. “I mean,” he offers, “I, too, have a couch, and an Internet connection.”

Liam gives him a strange look, and then actually seems to realize what Theo is getting at. His eyes widen. “Oh! Right, well, uh. Yeah, you do,” he agrees, and then seems to grimace at himself. 

Theo rolls himself back fully upright. “Bring the pancake mix,” he instructs. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got an egg.”

He doesn’t, and he also doesn’t have any bacon, which turns into a heretofore unmentioned deal-breaker for Liam; he bangs around in Theo’s kitchen loudly complaining about it until Theo rolls his eyes and agrees to go to the store primarily to shut him up. They wind up binging on more than eggs and bacon, though, and by the time Theo—and he’s seriously unsure how he wound up the designated chef, here, except that it may have something to do with his lack of faith in Liam not setting his kitchen on fire—is flipping the last pancake over, Liam has already drank half the bottle of orange juice they’d bought and eaten his way through more than a third of the carton of strawberries.

Theo stares at him, a little impressed. “You’re like a bottomless pit.”

“Ha, ha,” Liam deadpans, and attempts to steal another pancake from his perch on the counter near the oven; Theo had given up telling him to get down.

He does, however, successfully smack Liam’s hand away again. Liam makes a wounded noise and gives what could generously be classified as a displeased frown but is more realistically a pout, and glares. Theo goes back to ignoring him, for the moment, and focuses on flipping the last pancake onto the plate he’d been stacking them on.

Of course, he nearly dumps it on the floor when someone pounds loudly on his door, and then proceeds to immediately open it.

“What the hell, Theo?” Liam snarks, unimpressed. “You don’t lock your door?”

Theo gives him an incredulous look. “You were the last one through it, asshole.”

Liam seems to consider this, but Theo isn’t looking at him anymore; he’s looking at Brett. “Hey,” he greets, more than a little hesitantly, because Brett had frozen just inside the doorway, and is now grimacing some, his eyes on Liam.

But then Brett blinks. “Hey, sorry,” he replies, his eyes flicking from Liam to Theo as he steps the rest of the way inside, and closes the door. “I didn’t realize…”

That’s telling in and of itself, but Theo doesn’t press. In fact he doesn’t get the chance to respond at _all_ , because Liam waves—waves a _pancake_ that he’s holding at Brett, which he must have swiped when Theo wasn’t paying attention, like he’s a Victorian lady waving a handkerchief at a suitor. There’s a large bite already taken out of it, and Liam’s mouth is full as he cheerfully greets, “Hey, Brett! Want a pancake?”

Brett doesn’t seem to know whether to look disgusted or amused. “Actually, I was hoping…” He bites his lip, and looks back at Theo before shrugging apologetically. “It’s another pack thing,” he explains quietly, and holds up his phone.

And a pretty _serious_ one, if it caused Brett to come physically seek him out, and to miss every sign that he was with Liam, besides. Theo frowns, and wipes his hands quickly off on a dish towel before taking the few steps necessary so that he can hold his hand out. Brett shoots one last look at Liam, but then sets his phone down in Theo’s palm.

“Another pack thing?” Liam is repeating behind him, benignly curious. Theo can hear Brett’s pulse skip; he wonders if Liam catches it.

“...yeah,” Brett replies, after a moment’s hesitation. “Turns out Raeken’s kind of a walking encyclopedia when it comes to pack diplomacy issues.”

It’s meant as a compliment, or at least as a distracting sort of offhand statement, but it causes the air in the room to freeze briefly as it prompts Liam—and, therefore, Theo—to consider exactly how he’d come to possess such a skill set. Brett’s scent sours and Theo can’t help glancing up at him; Brett grimaces apologetically when he catches Theo’s eye.

Theo ignores it. “This came through Filipo, right?” The answer’s _yes_ —Theo has Brett’s phone, with the email open, right in front of him—but the confirmation is important; Brett nods.

“Look, it takes a lot to rattle Filipo, but _this_ did,” Brett confides. The sourness from before starts to thread its way through the rest of his scent. “He apparently was trying as hard as he could not to call this other alpha making the request a bastard, but…”

“But the guy’s trying to fuck you,” Theo concludes, and offers Brett his phone back. “‘Bastard’ is the appropriate term.”

Brett sags a little, like he’d maybe been hoping Theo would come out the other way. It takes everything Theo has not to reach for him, Brett giving up on apparently trying to keep up a front, and dropping his elbows onto Theo’s counter and then his face into his hands. 

But Liam’s still behind him, and he announces, “I’m lost.”

Theo glances at Brett, who raises his head just enough to glance at him. Theo can see the indecision on his face, but then he seems to come to some kind of inner agreement and he straightens up.

“Another alpha reached out,” he explains, bracing his arms wide on the counter as he looks at Liam, “offering an alliance.”

“Offering _threats_ ,” Theo corrects, and widens his eyes and makes a face at Brett when Brett glares at him. “What, that’s what he’s _doing_.”

“Still lost!” Liam interjects, before the argument can devolve further.

Brett glares at Theo for a few seconds longer, and then turns back to Liam. “He said—well. He apparently said a lot of shit, but the gist of it is that he’s _offering his hand in friendship_ to a pack _so touched by tragedy_.” He shrugs when Liam gives him an incredulous look. “His words.”

“It’s a formal thing, historical language,” Theo dismisses, literally _dismissing_ it by waving his hand through the air, like he could wave Brett’s words away. He braces his hands back around the counter behind himself. “Don’t get distracted by what he _said_. What he means is: your pack now consists of two people, one of whom is an eighteen year-old alpha.” He looks back at Brett. “He’s looking to take over your territory,” he tells him.

Brett drops his face back in his hands. “That’s what Filipo said.”

“So just refuse the alliance,” Liam suggests, and recoils bodily when Theo shoots him a poisonous look. “What?”

But Brett’s the one who answers. “It’s not that simple,” he replies, and then he looks at Theo. “Right? It’s not that simple.”

Theo can feel his own expression, and the look on his face is _unforgivably_ soft, and sympathetic; he tries to wrestle control of it back from whatever weird thing is happening in his chest, connected directly to whatever is happening to Brett’s scent.

“Refusing an alliance is a pretty major insult,” Theo agrees quietly. “And it’s exactly why Storo—the _alpha_ ,” he explains, drawled out in exaggerated patience when Liam squints at him, “—never sought one with Satomi. She would never have agreed to one with him. But she—” He says, looking pointedly—apologetically—at Brett, “—had the power to back up her refusal.”

“You know about him,” Brett realizes quietly, his eyes roving over Theo’s face. “You know who he is.”

Theo nods, reluctantly, after a second, but it’s somewhat lost in Liam saying, “Well, why don’t you _talk_ to him?”

Both Brett and Theo look immediately and incredulously at each other, and then at Liam. “What?” Brett demands, just as Theo says derisively, “ _Talk_ to Quentin Storo? About his trap of an offer?”

Liam just looks mulishly back, his arms crossing. “It’s what Scott would do.”

Something spasms across Brett’s face. “Well, I’m not _McCa—_ ” He starts to snap, just as Theo says softly, thoughtfully: “It is, isn’t it?”

Brett freezes, and then looks at _Theo_ incredulously. “You can’t be serious. Now you _do_ want me to talk to him?”

Theo jerks a little, jolted out of his thoughts. “What? No.”

Liam frowns. “Then you want _Scott_ to talk to him?”

“ _No_ ,” Theo snaps, and holds up his hands before either of them can speak again. 

But then he grins, because the seed of an idea that had taken root in his chest at Liam’s petulant comeback is _sprouting_ , and spooling itself out in his mind. He smirks first at Liam, and then at Brett.

“I want,” he drawls, his smirk widening, “you _and_ Scott to talk to him.”


	5. Chapter 5

_**Brett** _

“I just want you to know,” Scott announces, very seriously, and claps his hands around Brett’s shoulders as he looks Brett dead in the eye, “that even though I flubbed nearly _every_ line in my elementary school’s fourth-grade production of the Pirates of Penzance, I am a _new man_ , and will _not_ forget my lines today.”

“Scott!” Ms. McCall squawks, horrified, but Scott had already started grinning, his face splitting in a wide, helpless smile, and Brett—Brett had already started laughing, something twisted up tight in his chest starting to unwind. 

Scott claps him on the shoulders again, and then trots over to Deaton—who’d called his name in his overly-serene voice—to look at something Deaton’s holding. Brett watches him go, and then looks around. 

They’re in a clearing in the middle of Modoc National Forest, and _middle of_ is something of an understatement; they’d all had to hike here, no trails provided, and if it hadn’t been for Argent’s satellite phone they probably _still_ would have gotten lost. But found the clearing they had, and—ignoring Stiles back for Spring Break, and loudly wondering why they couldn’t have just done this in the parking lot of the high school, _christ_ —more than that; they’d apparently found the exact border of Satomi’s—of _his_ , now—territory with Scott’s. Brett exhales out quietly.

Lori comes up next to him, and bumps him with her shoulder. She’s got her arms loosely crossed when he glances down at her, though he expects that’s more from the cold than discomfort; it’s chilly in the woods. But then again, it might not be; she keeps glancing back at the McCall pack scattered around, her lip folding between her teeth.

“Hey,” Brett murmurs, and bumps her in turn. “It’s going to be okay.”

She jerks to look up at him, her face full of anxious surprise before she manages to fold it into a more neutral—if a little pinched—expression. “Hey, I’m not the one having to perform a ceremony of state on like, two days’ notice,” she points out, and grins when he makes a face.

He’s about to respond—though to say what, he doesn’t know; she’s _right_ , after all—when there’s a series of rustling through the trees, and one by one a dozen or so women and men all step out of the trees. They almost immediately form up behind a woman with a lined face and a wicked smile, and Brett feels that thing that had twisted itself loose in his chest earlier winch right back up as he stares at her. 

“Shohreh,” he breathes, but it’s Lori who makes a soft, broken noise and takes off across the clearing for her.

Shohreh catches her with an _oof_ and wraps her arms _tight_ around Lori’s shoulders as she bends low to press her lips to the top of Lori’s head. “Hello, little one,” Brett can hear Shohreh murmur, and he feels his own expression twist as he smells salt start to tinge the air, Lori hiding her face against Shohreh’s chest. 

The McCall pack—including Liam, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with the blown-open expression on his face—is watching as Brett makes his way much more carefully over to Shohreh and her pack, but Brett barely pays them any attention. This close he can smell Shohreh’s perfume, and the muskier, earthier smell that’s all her pack, and it’s like _instantly_ being transported back to every trip to Yreka he and Lori had taken with Satomi; to running around Shohreh’s massive backyard with the other Yreka pack kids while Shohreh and Satomi and the other adults had sat on the porch talking, and laughing.

Shohreh opens one of her arms, when Brett gets close enough, and pulls him in, too.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells him—tells _them_ , Lori’s face still buried in the other side of her chest. “I’m so very sorry.”

Brett has to turn into her, and hide his _own_ face against her chest at that.

But with the arrival of Shohreh and her pack, the _ceremony of state_ —to use Lori’s only half-joking term—can actually begin. Shohreh eventually releases Lori and Brett, and then—giving Brett a small, secret smile—nods at him to lead the way. Brett jolts, after a second, realizing what she’s trying to convey, and leads her and her pack over to Scott and _his_ pack.

“Mr. McCall,” Shohreh greets, when they’re close enough. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, uh,” Scott replies, looking briefly panicked; that could, after all, mean a lot of things. “All—good things, I hope?” Behind him, Deaton’s expression goes a little longsuffering.

Shohreh just smirks, sharp and sly; Brett has to bite down on a grin. “Good enough, I suppose,” she answers breezily, and then ignores Scott making an anxious grimace as he looks back at his pack to instead look at Deaton, who inclines his head. “Alan.”

“Shohreh,” he replies, calm and even.

There’s a few seconds of silence as the various packs all stare at each other, and then Shohreh claps her hands together and announces, “Well, let’s get this goddamn show on the road, shall we? I’m not getting any younger.” She grins at Brett immediately after she says it, and Brett can’t help grinning back.

The ceremony is short—almost strangely so—and consists almost entirely of Scott and Brett standing in a circle of Scott’s pack and Shohreh’s pack, and—in theory—Brett’s, though in practice Lori ends up standing directly behind Brett’s right shoulder, Shohreh’s hands gentle on her arms as she’d guided her to the right spot. 

Deaton, on the other hand, had just pointed to a spot behind Scott’s right shoulder and looked pointedly at Liam until Liam had yelped _oh!_ and scrambled to stand on it. 

Deaton leads them through it, Scott and Brett standing across from each other and Shohreh stood between them and across from Deaton. Scott _doesn’t_ forget his lines—the opposite, actually; Brett realizes with a small thread of _something_ that Scott had clearly _practiced_ his lines—and neither does Brett, though he stumbles in a few places. But Shohreh’s a warm, comforting presence on one side, and Lori’s the same on his other, and he gets through it; he and Scott both flare their red eyes, as instructed, and clasp forearms as Deaton asks, finally, if they agree to defend one another’s pack as if they were their own, and both he and Scott say _yes_ , firm and with their eyes locked.

“Witnessed,” Shohreh murmurs, when they’re done, and that’s apparently it; she grins, and the tension around the circle breaks.

“Phew,” Scott says, and shakes out his shoulders as he bounces a little on his toes; he grins at Brett, too, the shift falling away from his eyes and the residual tension falling away from his limbs like a shroud. “Well, that was quite a thing.”

But that tension comes right back when Shohreh says, “A not quite _done_ thing,” dryly, just as Deaton murmurs, “There’s one more step.”

Brett glances curiously at Shohreh as Scott squints at Deaton. Shohreh smiles at him, and answers his unspoken question. “Ambassadors. You each need to pick one.”

Brett has a brief flash, suddenly, of Shohreh’s second-in-command’s various appearances at Satomi’s house; he jerks to look over Shohreh’s shoulder at McPherson, who inclines his head. “Oh,” he says stupidly. “Right.” 

Then he grimaces, because it’s not exactly going to be a _hard_ choice for him; he twists around to look at Lori, who looks back, wide-eyed. He smiles softly at her.

“Lori?” He prompts.

She _stares_ , and then glances desperately at Shohreh, but Shohreh must give her some kind of nod or other signal, because her expression briefly spasms before it steels. She nods, firmly.

Deaton looks from her, to Scott. “Does the McCall pack accept Lori as the ambassador from the Talbot—” Brett _jolts_ at the name, something strange and _bitter_ cloying in his gut, “—pack?”

“Yes,” Scott agrees, and then—Brett catching it out of the corner of his eye when Shohreh mouths a correction—he quickly adds, “Uh, I mean. I accept.”

Deaton continues smoothly over the top of Scott’s awkward response. “And the McCall pack’s ambassador to the Talbot pack?”

Scott bites his lip, and glances around his various pack members spread out behind him. He lingers a little on Stiles and Lydia—doesn’t linger at _all_ on Mason or Corey, who both go sheet-white the second he so much as glances at them—and then lingers a _lot_ on Derek Hale. But then he suddenly grins, and twists around the other way to look directly at Liam.

Liam _freezes_ , but:

“Liam,” Scott announces. “The McCall pack ambassador to the Talbot pack will be Liam Dunbar.”

“ _What?_ ” Liam hisses, his eyes fixed intently on Scott like they were having a private argument, rather than surrounded by over a dozen spectators. “No!”

Scott’s expression goes soft, and a little sympathetic, and his mouth starts to open as he apparently goes to reply, but Brett beats him to speaking.

“I accept,” he announces, and meets Liam’s eyes when Liam jumps and turns to look at _him_ , instead. 

Brett’s not entirely sure why he says it—it’d felt almost like a joke, at first, a reflexive dig at the panicked look on Liam’s face—but as Liam keeps _looking_ at him, it starts to settle into something else; this rock-hard, diamond-certainty that’s _exactly_ like the expression that Theo always gets on his face whenever he looks at Liam, or Liam looks at _him_. 

The rock-hard, diamond-certainty of Liam’s hand around Brett’s wrist, that night of the Devenford-Beacon Hills lacrosse game, and the taste of it as Brett had told Theo later: _I get it, now_.

“The Talbot pack, or—or I, or whatever,” he adds, still looking at Liam. “I accept.”

Liam continues to stare, but his hissed _are you_ insane _?_ , gets nearly entirely lost underneath Deaton saying, as serene as ever, “Then the McCall pack ambassador to the Talbot pack will be Liam.”

There’s a stretch of silence where Liam just _stares_ in apparently open-mouthed _horror_ , and everyone else around the circle apparently waits for some kind of final cue. Brett just keeps right on grinning at Liam, something wild and a little fluttery tumbling around his chest. 

And then _Shohreh_ grins, and looks at Scott as she says, “Okay, _now_ it’s quite a thing, Mr. McCall,” and Scott laughs, long and loud.

_**Liam** _

Liam doesn’t actually manage to corner Scott alone until almost half an hour after the ceremony wraps up, Scott spending the time in between with Shohreh and Brett and Argent double-checking directions to the park in downtown Devenford that they’d all agreed to use for the celebration. 

But finally the core little group of them breaks away, scattering back to their various corners of the clearing to start preparing for the hike back to civilization, and Liam can break loose—literally, Stiles’ arm around his shoulder like a _clamp_ —from the little circle him and Mason and Corey and the other members of the pack had formed, and hurry over to Scott, intercepting him a few feet away.

He doesn’t bother to say hello, or anything equally asinine. “You have to take it back, or whatever,” he hisses when he’s close enough. He tries to say it quietly enough that only Scott can hear him, but they’re in a clearing full of supernaturally-sensed shapeshifters; they’re _definitely_ being overheard. 

Scott just stops, thankfully, so it’s just the two of them, and squints at him. “Take _what_ back?”

Liam stares at him. “The—the _ambassadorship_ , or whatever!” Liam shrills, and then winces at his own volume, and lowers his voice. “You have to take it _back_. Make—make someone _else_ the ambassador.”

Scott just tilts his head. “Why would I do that?”

Liam gapes at him, and then makes a series of wild and not necessarily coherent gestures—christ, Stiles had only been back for like, _two days_ —and whisper-yells, “Because I don’t know how to _be_ an ambassador!”

To his credit, Scott actually seems to consider this. “Well,” he says, slowly, “in your defense, I don’t think _any_ of us really know what we’re doing. You and me and Brett are all sort of…figuring this out live. That’s kind of,” he adds, gesturing around to the clearing, and everyone in it, “the point of all this, isn’t it?”

The answer’s _yes_ ; that’d been the genius of Theo’s plan. Quentin Storo had been counting on leveraging the collapse of the old system of alliances—Satomi dead, and Talia Hale dead, and their packs and territories left in the hands of two new and _young_ alphas—and with any attempt to intervene by Satomi’s old allies—by _Shohreh_ —seen as sentiment, and not practicality; as endangering the stability of the remaining packs. But an alliance between those two young alphas, one of them a _true_ alpha—that wouldn’t be something so easily railroaded over. That’d be something that the remaining alphas could _support_.

So it’s what Brett had proposed to Scott, Theo’s words in his mouth and Liam at his side as he’d said, _I need your help_. And Scott had agreed—of _course_ Scott had agreed—and it’d _worked_ , as far as anyone could tell; the news of the McCall-Talbot alliance had already spread, with the ceremony itself just a formality. Quentin Storo’s response to Brett’s carefully-worded refusal had been just as carefully-worded; he wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk a war, not with Scott and the other alphas standing behind Brett.

It’d _worked_.

Or it _had_ , except that now:

“You guys are _alphas_ ,” Liam shoots back. “I’m just—” He cuts himself off without finishing that sentence. “What if I _fuck it up?_ ”

Scott looks at him, steady and unwavering. “Lori’s not an alpha,” he points out, not unreasonably. “Are you worried about _her_ fucking it up?”

Liam _blanches_. “Lori’s a born wolf,” he counters. “She—she grew _up_ with all of this.” He jerks his chin over his own shoulder, where Lori is in fact stood with Brett in the middle of Shohreh’s pack, laughing and talking and so very at _home_.

Scott tries a different tack. “Brett seems to think you can do it.”

“Brett was _being an asshole_ ,” Liam shoots back, though even as he says it, he’s not—actually sure that’s true. He shakes off the momentary frisson of doubt.

Scott looks doubtful. “Didn’t you _just_ claim that Brett and I are, whatever. More capable of handling this because we’re alphas? You really think he’d risk the security of his pack—his _sister_ —just to be a dick to you?”

_No_ , Liam thinks, immediately and without waver. Out-loud he just snaps, “Whatever, just—just choose someone else! Derek, maybe, or _Lydia_ , she’d be—”

“Liam,” Scott interrupts, and clasps his hands around both of Liam’s shoulders. It has the instantaneous effect of shutting Liam up, though Scott’s grip is gentle, and his eyes when he ducks down some to meet Liam’s are sympathetic. “The ceremony is already over. I don’t think I _can_ change my mind. And even if I _could_ ,” he continues, and squeezes Liam’s arms gently, “I wouldn’t. You can do this,” he concludes. “ _We_ can do this,” he corrects, after a second, and reaches up to tussle Liam’s hair; Liam immediately squawks and tries to bat his hand away. Scott grins. “You’re not alone in this, alright? I’ve got as much to learn as you do.”

Liam stares at him. _Yeah_ , he thinks, _except you’re Scott McCall._ He doesn’t say any of that out-loud. Scott studies him for a few more seconds, and then claps his hands around Liam’s shoulders once, and grins, before pulling Liam in so that he’s tucked under one of Scott’s shoulders, Scott’s arm around him.

“Now, c’mon,” he says, and starts leading the way towards his mom and Argent and Deaton and the others still standing around waiting. “I’m starving, and we don’t get to eat until we get back to town.”

Liam stumbles along after him primarily because he _has_ to—Scott’s grip is friendly, but his arm around Liam’s shoulders is flexible like _steel_ —and not because he’s done panicking. He bites his lip, and looks back over his shoulder at Shohreh’s pack, and Brett and Lori—at Brett’s _pack_ —and then he jumps, and colors, and turns quickly back forwards.

He can still feel Brett’s gaze on the back of his head, though, steady and level and thoughtful.

_**Theo** _

Theo himself had been the last one through his front door, which means for once in his goddamn residence here it’s locked when someone starts pounding on it, and tries the knob. 

He’d be more concerned, except that he can hear Brett’s and Liam’s heartbeats on the other side.

“Hey,” Brett greets wryly when Theo pulls open the door, and then almost immediately he has to stop with a startled noise and resettle Liam’s arm over his shoulders as Liam—jelly-legged, and with a glazed, absent expression—starts to slip downwards towards the floor.

“What the hell,” Theo says blankly, and reaches forward automatically to help haul him back up; his and Brett’s hands brush around Liam’s waist, Brett’s other hand wrapped around Liam’s hip to do its ineffectual best at keeping him upright. “Is he _drunk?_ ”

Liam apparently finds that _hilarious_ ; he cackles a little, turning and messily burying the sound in Brett’s chest. But the wriggling around causes him to slip again and Brett and Theo have to resettle him, which is what causes it to finally click for Theo that he’s still standing in his doorway, blocking Brett’s entrance into his apartment. He moves.

Brett shoots him a grateful look and starts all but dragging Liam inside, heading for the couch. “He is, in fact, drunk,” Brett agrees, grunting a little as he and Liam have to round the back of the couch and Liam’s lack of cooperation and coordination causes them to stumble. But finally they make it far enough that Brett can unloop Liam’s arm from his neck, and shove him over, onto the couch.

Liam hits it, and curls up like a pill bug with a mournful little groan.

Theo had closed the door, and followed them over. He looks down at Liam as Brett straightens up, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. How the hell can he be _drunk?_ ”

“Wolfsbane-laced alcohol,” Brett explains, grimacing. He shrugs. “Shohreh brought it for those _of age_ to drink at the celebration, but he was still—freaking out, a little, so he kept sneaking it.”

“Freaking out?” Theo repeats, his amusement at Liam’s predicament starting to curdle into concern in his chest. “Freaking out about _what?_ ”

Brett opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Liam who actually manages to reply. “I,” he announces grandiosely, rolling over and flinging an arm out in a gesture that would have been more impressively majestic, as intended, if Liam hadn’t immediately banged his wrist on the coffee table and sworn, _shit_ , “am an _ambassador_ , now.”

Theo stares at him, and then looks up at Brett for clarification. “He’s a what?”

To his surprise, _Brett_ colors, some. “An ambassador,” Brett repeats. “ _My_ ambassador. Or, I guess,” he corrects, stumbling some, “Scott’s ambassador _to_ me, but.” He trails off.

“Oh,” Theo says, because he has no idea what else to say. He glances back down at Liam, who seems to have immediately regretted rolling over because he’d gone a little green and curled right back up into a tight ball. “Right. Right, of course.”

“Forgot about that part, did you?” Brett observes dryly.

Theo grimaces. “Didn’t realize it was part of the actual _ceremony_.” He shoots a quick, apologetic look at Brett. “Sorry.”

Brett shrugs. “Wasn’t a big deal,” he dismisses, though that seems to fly in the face of the evidence to the contrary curled up and miserably wolfsbane-drunk on Theo’s couch. 

“It’s _Brett’s_ fault,” Liam suddenly opines grouchily. He twists his head around just enough that he can glare up at Brett through one eye. “He’s the one who _accepted_.”

Brett’s flushing again when Theo glances at him in surprise. “Seemed ill-advised to refuse,” he claims, but his pulse skips, and the color on his cheeks deepens. Theo opens his mouth to—push, maybe, curious and something a little _more_ than curious, but this time Liam beats _him_ to it.

He starts pushing himself up—or attempting to, anyway—as he glares at Brett. “That is _not_ , not what happened,” he accuses. His bracing arm collapses, and Theo instinctively darts forward to catch him some as he starts to tumble back down to the couch in a messy pile of his own limbs. “It’s _not_ ,” Liam insists to Theo. They’d wound up with their faces very close; Theo can feel Liam’s breath skating across his lips.

“How about,” Theo suggests, trying to control his own suddenly-galloping heartbeat, “you tell me all about it. _In the morning_.” He doesn’t leave his suggestion entirely to chance; his hands had landed on Liam’s bare arms. He starts siphoning Liam’s headache and his roiling nausea. Liam’s eyelashes almost immediately start to flutter. 

Theo lowers him back down to the couch as he starts to slip the rest of the way into sleep. When he removes his hands and straightens up, Brett is watching him carefully.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, quiet now. “He was really insistent about coming here.”

Something clenches in Theo’s chest. He does his best to keep it off his face, and shrugs as he maneuvers his way out from between the couch and coffee table, and past Brett. “It’s fine,” he answers, just as softly.

Brett follows him into the kitchen. The conversation could be over—Brett successfully dropped off Liam, and provided the explanation for his state—but it feels half-finished, at best. It’s something in the way Brett’s holding himself, already a little hunched; already half-defensive. Theo swallows a sigh, and leans back against the counter, his hands rising to wrap around the edges on either side of his hips. 

Brett winces, apparently reading the expectation in his pose. He looks away, out into the dark of the hallway leading to Theo’s bedroom, and sucks his teeth for a second before shaking his head, and looking back. “You should have been there tonight.”

Theo gives him a strange look. “What, why?”

Brett gives him an equally-strange look back. “It was _your_ plan.”

“So?” Theo challenges. He shifts to cross his arms loosely over his chest, and his ankles one over the other. “These things are pack members only. I’m not a member of either of your packs.”

He doesn’t say _I’m a prisoner of one_ , but it hangs there in the air between them, heavy like the carving hanging next to Theo’s door.

Brett just works his jaw, and _now_ they’ve reached the crux of whatever unfinished conversation Brett had clearly been playing out in his head. Anticipation—a little sour, a little anxious—starts to curdle in Theo’s chest as he looks back at Brett looking carefully back at him.

Finally Brett exhales out just the tiniest puff of air, and murmurs, “You could be.”

Theo _stares_. “What?”

His voice had been sharper and higher-pitched than he’d meant it to be; Brett winces. But he doesn’t back down. Instead he sucks in a huge, steadying breath, and clarifies, like it’s _clarification_ Theo needs: “You could be a part of a pack.”

The sour anticipation in Theo’s chest has calcified right up into a tight, claustrophobic ball in the center of Theo’s ribs. “Brett…” He starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish.

“Look, I could use you, alright?” Brett says, a little over-loud; he winces, and glances towards the living room and Liam still passed out on the couch. “You _get_ all this pack stuff. _I don’t_. And _clearly_ that shit has consequences.” He spreads his arms wide, seemingly to encompass Liam wolfsbane-drunk in the other room and himself, now fifty percent of a new, powerful werewolf alliance. 

Theo doesn’t respond. Still _can’t_ respond, really; his throat’s too tight. Brett must see or sense that because he sighs, heavily, and then picks his way carefully forward. “Look,” he says quietly, stopping in front of the barrier of Theo’s now tightly-crossed arms. “Just—just do me a favor, alright, and give it some actual thought before you say no.”

He already sounds disappointed; the wrenched-up ball in Theo’s chest twists tighter. He stares up at Brett—can tell that his own expression has gone blown-open, and raw—and doesn’t know what to say, or do. 

But luckily Brett doesn’t make him decide. He swallows, and—his eyes flickering down to Theo’s lips, and then over his shoulder towards where Liam is fast asleep on the couch—steps back. 

“I should go,” he murmurs. He starts to turn away, and then he stops, his bottom lip pulling between his teeth. He looks back at Theo. “Thank you,” he says. “Seriously, thank you. Tonight wouldn’t have…” He trails off, and then sighs. “Just, thanks.”

He flicks one last look at Theo, and then heads for the door. 

Theo nearly stops him. He has no idea what to say, or do, but his nose is clogged-up with Brett’s cloying, bitter scent, and the place at the base of his skull where he has the vaguest awareness of Brett— _it means sleeping with an alpha has consequences, asshole_ —is throbbing uncomfortably. But his chest’s too tight, and his thoughts are too confused, and Brett—makes it through the door, and closes it softly behind himself, before Theo can do much more than stare after him.

He covers his face with his hands. “Shit,” he murmurs to his palms.

Liam’s in the same place, when Theo finally manages to push off the counter, and go check on him. Theo watches him for a few moments, and then he starts carefully trying to tug the comforter that Liam had collapsed on top of out from underneath him, so that he can spread it out on top of Liam’s loosely sprawled limbs instead. 

But Liam’s eyelids flutter open, and he blinks at Theo. “Hey,” he greets, a wide, helpless smile breaking over his face.

“Hi,” Theo returns, just as helpless. But: “You want to help me with this?” He gives a demonstrative little tug on the comforter. 

Liam just makes a face, and then starts trying to—to _stand_ ; Theo catches him when he immediately stumbles, and gets him levered back onto the couch. It leaves Liam sitting up on the cushions, with Theo on his knees propping him up with his hands on Liam’s arms. 

“What are you doing?” Theo chastises. “C’mon, lay back down.”

“Nooo,” Liam drawls, long and drawn out. “This is where—this is where you _sleep_. I can’t, I can’t take your _bed_.”

Theo squints at him. “Liam, I _have_ a bed.”

Liam just glares at him, or as much as he can, anyway; he’s bobbing and weaving a little, still unsteady from the wolfsbane-laced alcohol. “Yeah, but you don’t _sleep_ there. You sleep _here_.”

Panic bolts up Theo’s spine. “What? Liam—”

But Liam just pushes himself to his feet again, and Theo has to hurriedly stand with him to keep Liam from standing _into_ him. He keeps his hands on Liam’s arms to keep him upright. 

“I’ll, _I’ll_ sleep in the bed,” Liam declares, and starts trying to stumble that way. 

Theo moves with him, because it’s that or let Liam fall over. “Liam, hey, jesus,” he complains, but he manages to get one arm around Liam’s waist, and one of Liam’s arms pulled over his shoulders.

Liam turns into him as they stagger their way down the hallway, Liam’s feet dragging and of very limited use as Theo tries to keep them from crashing into his table, or the hallway walls. “You should have—you should have _been_ there tonight,” Liam tells him, very earnestly. Theo flinches.

“Yeah,” he replies. “So people keep telling me.”

They’re almost to the bedroom, now; Theo has to turn them slightly to get them through the doorway before they collide with the frame. He’s focused enough on that, that he isn’t focused on _Liam_ , and so it comes as a complete shock when Liam manages to haul them both to an unsteady stop halfway through it, his hands landing on and then _twisting_ in Theo’s collar.

“How come,” he asks, _peering_ up into Theo’s eyes, “how come you don’t want to belong anywhere?”

Theo _stares_. “What?”

“You _don’t_ ,” Liam insists, a little reproachfully, like Theo had tried to deny it. “I know, I know you don’t. You would have left a long time ago if you could have.” He gropes, suddenly and unexpectedly, for Theo’s left wrist; Theo _jumps_ when his fingers brush the leather of his bracelet, like Liam’s fingers were electrified.

Theo doesn’t know what to say. He says nothing, just continues to stare at Liam, his expression blown-open and _raw_.

“When—when this comes off,” Liam continues, dragging Theo’s wrist up between them, “you’ll—you’ll leave. _I_ know it,” he insists loudly, “and _Scott_ knows it, and—and—”

“What do you mean, Scott knows it?” Theo demands, a little sharply.

Liam blows out a clumsy raspberry. “He, he _said_ ,” Liam replies. “He said that when Argent takes off your bracelet, that you’ll leave, and we have to let you go. That no one—no one can try and stop you.”

Theo searches his face. “He said that to you?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Liam drawls again. He also shakes his head, which must exacerbate his nausea, because he stumbles; Theo has to catch him, and haul him back upright. Liam’s eyes fix back on his face like nothing had happened. “He said it to _Argent_ and the _Sheriff_ and _Derek_. I just—just overheard him.”

“Liam…” Theo breathes, because he can’t—bring himself to lie.

Liam just gives him a quick, seemingly helpless flicker of his lips. “Where will you. Where will you go?”

He looks so goddamn _earnest_. Theo’s fingers spasm around Liam’s arm; stuck in mid-air within Liam’s grip. “I don’t—I don’t know,” Theo admits.

Liam just gives him a sad look. “Yeah, yeah you do,” he disagrees. “You just don’t want to tell me.” He drops Theo’s left wrist to reach up and clumsily touch Theo’s face. “It’s okay,” he assures him. “You don’t have to. I just—I hope you like it, wherever it is.”

That tight ball that’d curled itself up tight in Theo’s chest is growing larger, and squeezing out his lungs from the inside of his ribcage; he feels like he can barely breathe. But: “Maybe you can come visit me sometime,” he offers shakily.

Liam smiles again, but it’s that same sad smile. “No,” he denies, shaking his head again. “No, once you go, you’re gone.” Theo flinches like Liam had _struck_ him, but Liam isn’t done. He touches the very tips of his fingers to the curve of Theo’s cheek, the side of his nose. “You’ll tell yourself it’s easier, and probably it even _will_ be, so, so, you’ll just,” he takes his hands away from Theo’s face and collar to close them between them between their bodies, and then open them up, “poof.”

Theo can’t look at him anymore. His eyes squeeze shut. He swallows. “Got me all figured out, huh?” He murmurs, trying for the joke. But:

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, and gives Theo another lopsided grin when Theo opens his eyes and looks at him. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Theo searches his face again. He smiles shakily back. “You’re not going to remember _any_ of this tomorrow morning,” he tells him, and it’s the _relief_ in his own chest that’s making his voice light.

Liam eyes him reproachfully. “I _could_. You don’t, you don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” Theo murmurs softly back. “I think I might.”

He takes a step forward, and then another, slowly encouraging Liam back towards the bed. Liam goes, though his eyes never leave Theo’s face. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, like a confession, then: “I _already_ miss you, sometimes.”

The back of his knees hit the mattress. He sits. Theo looks down at him, can feel how twisted up his expression is. “I’m right here,” he counters softly. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Yeah, but you _will_ ,” Liam retorts, not a challenge but a statement of fact. Then he groans, and starts to tip over, clearly trying to lay down. Theo lurches forward to catch him before he can lay down too close to the edge, and fall off. 

By the time Theo manages to get Liam settled, and under the sheet, Liam’s eyes are already dropping, and his pulse already slowing. Liam looks up at him, his eyes on Theo’s face, and Theo can’t help it; he reaches down, and brushes one hand over the side of Liam’s jaw, and then lays his palm against it so he can siphon the last of Liam’s drunk-induced discomfort, and nausea.

Liam’s eyes are closed when he pulls back, his breath puffing gently against Theo’s wrist.

Theo watches him for a few seconds, and then he sighs and steps back. “Night, Liam,” he whispers quietly, and turns for the door.

“‘Bye, Theo,” Liam mumbles back, and it sounds— _final_. It sounds like a last goodbye.

Theo turns around in the doorway to look at him, but Liam is already asleep. Theo stares at him a little longer, and then he bites his lip, and forces himself to turn and walk away.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Brett** _

“Lori!” Brett yells, even though he’s out in the parking lot of their complex and she’s still inside doing _whatever_ the hell she’s doing; she’ll hear him. “What is the goddamn hold-up? Come _on!_ ”

Lori comes bursting through the lobby doors maybe thirty seconds later, her hair streaming behind her right along with the handful of clothes she has tucked under her arms. Brett looks at her incredulously as she comes to a stop, panting, in front of him.

“We are going for _four days_ ,” he points out, because _what the hell_ ; she already has a stuffed suitcase in the car. 

Lori just makes a face. “Just because you’re satisfied with a fistful of too-small t-shirts…” She drawls, and then she grins and cackles when he makes a grab—a lazy one—for her, and darts away.

Satomi’s farmhouse in Oregon is only four and a half hours away according to the Internet’s rose-colored, California-traffic-doesn't-exist calculations, so it’s more realistically like six, but either way they could make it in a single day if they wanted to. They _have_ made it in a single day, plenty of times, Brett and Lori shoved into the back of whoever drew the short straw’s SUV with Jiang and Tierney and the other kids when they were younger, and then the two of them—and _also_ sometimes Jiang and Tierney, depending on how much one or the other bitched—in Brett’s car. But still, three hours in Brett exits the highway just over the California-Oregon border at a little nothing town that they’ve driven past _plenty_ of times; Lori gives him a look. 

Brett just grins, secret and sly, and keeps weaving his way through town, the directions already carefully memorized.

Lori recognizes where they are, and where Brett’s taking them, the second she sees the big metal sign perched high up on its pole, all the better for exhausted families and long-haul truckers to see it from the highway. She turns to him with a shocked, disbelieving expression on her face—her mouth dropped open like a _fish_ —as Brett pulls into the parking lot of their destination, and parks the car.

“This,” he warns her, “is your birthday present _and_ your Christmas present _and_ any other present I deem fit, for like the next five _years_. I hope you understand that.”

Lori just squeals out something vaguely like an assent, and scrambles out of the car. 

Brett’s not entirely sure where she’s going; the motel reservation is under his name—negotiated by Filipo through a very confused, but extremely well-compensated owner—and the office is in the other direction. But then he realizes that she’d headed for the sidewalk so that she could spin in a tight circle on her heel, searching out the various other buildings—diner, classically Americana mechanic’s, library—that she and Tierney had spent _days_ identifying, hunched over, alternatively, Google maps on Lori’s laptop and paused screen-frames of the ridiculous supernatural hunting show with the comically-tall brothers they were both inexplicably obsessed with on Tierney’s tablet. 

Brett ambles over to her. He’s trying to keep the grin off his face but her giddiness is bursting like champagne bubbles on the back of his tongue, sharp just like the _actual_ champagne had been that Satomi had broken out for everyone but, ironically, Amanda herself, when Amanda and Sadie had announced Amanda’s pregnancy. Lori jolts as he reaches her side and looks over at him, her entire face just _lit up_ with her grin and the crinkled corners of her eyes. 

It makes something in Brett’s chest twist even as that smile seems to take up root in his own ribs and spreads warm tendrils out through his veins; it’d been _forever_ since he’d seen that expression on Lori’s face.

Still, Brett’s _Brett_ : he makes sure his voice is appropriately dry and that he’s smirking instead of grinning when he says, “I still maintain that that show was _awful_ , solely on the basis of their hilariously wrong werewolf lore.”

“That show was _perfect_ ,” Lori counters—picking up an old argument—and then adds, loftily, “You just don’t know good art when you see it.”

Brett snorts, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “C’mon,” he says, as he starts dragging her back towards the office. “We’ve got to actually get our room, and then I’m _starving_.” He stops, and adopts a look of innocent curiosity. “Know any good places to eat around here?”

Lori elbows him sharply in the ribs. “Oh, shut up,” she squawks, and then eels out from underneath his arm to go run ahead to the office. 

At the diner down the street—their bags safely stowed in their room—Brett turns up the charm for the hostess as Lori tries, and initially only gets a blank stare back, to negotiate for a very _specific_ booth in the restaurant. The young woman blushes _scarlet_ as she flicks a look up at Brett and sees him mouth _please_ over the top of Lori’s head, and she stutters a little as she finally agrees, and slides two comically large and plastic-sheathed menus out of the holder on the host stand, and leads them over to the booth Lori had pointed to.

“Brett, this is _it_ ,” Lori hisses, leaning over the table like they’re sharing a dangerous secret, her elbows on the laminate. “This is the _exact booth_. Tierney and I spent like, hours figuring it out, but they filmed on location for the episode and _this is it!_ ”

“This is embarrassing for you,” Brett opines, first off because it is, and second because it’s expected of him, but mostly because if he doesn’t go for the cheap joke the hard lump of grief sitting up under his throat might crack open. “I’m embarrassed for you.”

Lori just scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, well. _You’re_ the one who’s going to be memorialized forever as part of this embarrassment, so.” Brett doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she suddenly twists around, and takes the picture—her phone held high—before he can duck down out of the way.

Brett makes a—not very determined—lunge for Lori’s phone as she cackles and wedges herself back in the corner of the booth. “Do _not_ post that,” he orders.

“Too late!” Lori crows, and Brett can feel his own phone buzz in his pocket seconds later; she’d tagged him in it. He gives the middle-distance a dry look.

Lori and Tierney had worked out a whole list of places they wanted to see, carefully identified from the episode. After they eat—Lori ordering a burger, and onion rings, and a strawberry milkshake that Brett ends up finishing for her because even in the midst of her fangirl heaven she _still_ can’t make herself like the flavor—Brett ends up lumbering along after her as she leads him from location to location, snapping pictures that he loudly complains about being in every time, though he makes no effort to actually get _out_ of them. 

Finally she drags him to a stop in front of a nondescript split level deeper within the actual residential neighborhoods of the town. Her fingers are tight enough around his arm that they might actually be constricting blood-flow to his fingers; Brett says nothing.

“This is _it_ ,” Lori tells him, low and whispered even though there’s literally no one else around; awed. “This is where they filmed the actual haunting scenes.”

“No way,” Brett intones dryly. “That’s _so cool_.”

Lori punches him in the arm, and then immediately goes back to clinging to him. “You know,” she confides, at a more normal volume. “Me and Tierney had these like, vague plans to sneak in, see if we could actually find the bedrooms and stuff.”

“Oh, good,” Brett replies. “A little light breaking and entering.” He smirks down at her. “Satomi would have _killed you_.”

Lori makes a face. “Well, _duh_ ,” she agrees. “That’s why we never _did it_. Well, that and,” she hesitates, and swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is thicker. “That and, you know.”

Brett does know: _that and_ Tierney and the rest of their pack had been murdered by Monroe before Lori and Tierney could actually execute their ridiculous pilgrimage to this town. Brett grimaces, and twists around so that he can pull her more fully into his arms, and drop his face against her hair. 

_Sorry_ , he thinks about saying. Her scent had been so awash in giddy excitement and a happiness so ripe that it seemed to be _bursting_ out of her for the last few hours, but now it sours some; goes bittersweet. But Lori beats him to speaking.

“Thanks,” she whispers, pulling back. Her cheeks are a little shiny; Brett feels his chest clench. “No, really,” she insists; she must see the look on his face. “This was—this was amazing.” 

She steps back fully, and looks around, her expression somber. 

“This is,” she concludes, looking back at him, “how I want to remember her. How I want to remember _them_.”

Brett tries to say something, and can’t; his throat is too tight. Instead he just gets a hand around Lori’s shoulder, and pulls her back in. Lori lets him.

They leave the next morning, but only _after_ Brett has pulled out the plastic bag of groceries he’d hidden in his bag, and let Lori—expression bright with disbelief, and excitement—fumble her way through making them coffee, and some lopsided eggs, in the room’s tiny kitchenette. Half the hot plate doesn’t seem to work and Brett _insists_ she wash out the coffee pot at least three times—because he may be a werewolf but he has _standards_ —before he’ll deign to drink any of it, but Lori looks so damn proud of herself that he has to keep hiding his grin behind his mug.

Once they finally head out, the traffic is miraculously light enough that they manage to make good time. Lori gets quieter and quieter the closer they get, and Brett _gets it_ , viscerally; he keeps getting flashes, too, of all the times they’d driven these same roads, and passed the same signs and blithely curious livestock, on their way to the farmhouse. 

He doesn’t push.

The farmhouse is exactly as Brett remembers it being. It’s strange as _hell_ to just be able to pull into the large gravel lot in front of the house; parking had always, _always_ been a nightmare given the number of cars, and getting a spot had been an exercise in Machiavellian tactics and sheer bloody-mindedness. Lori must be thinking the same thing, because she smirks slightly as Brett rolls to a stop. 

“Remember that time—” She starts to say, and Brett knows _instantly_ where she’s going.

“Do _not_ bring that up,” he groans. “That was _not my fault_. Kotaro was the one who boxed me in like that, and Ame was of _no help whatsoever._ ”

Lori snickers. “You were out here for _days_ buffing that scratch out of Ame’s car.”

“Yeah, yours and Tierney’s and Jiang’s commentary really made that a delightful experience,” Brett observes dryly. They’d sat on the porch and watched, popsicles or bowls of ice cream or hotdogs in hand, calling purposefully idiotic suggestions and occasionally narrating like Brett was in some kind of sultry car commercial. 

Though Brett had, eventually, managed to lure them close under the guise of triple-checking his work, and then had dumped an entire bucket of soapy water over their collective heads, so. He grins.

Inside, the house smells more than a little musty. The first thing Brett and Lori do is go through and open each and every window in the place to air it out. There’s something a little desperate to the way Brett can feel himself yanking up the frames, and he sees—and senses—Lori doing the same; he has to close his eyes, at one point, and lean his forehead against the cool glass.

Filipo had offered to hire cleaners, but Brett and Lori had immediately refused, horrified. Brett had looked at Lori across from him at their kitchen table, the idea of _strangers_ roaming clinically through the farmhouse actually, physically sickening, and had snapped _no_ , too sharp; too _alpha-laden_. Filipo hadn’t pushed.

It takes them a few hours to pull all the various sheets off the beds, and towels off the racks, and—and _clothes_ out of closets, and start washing them. They also—after the breeze flowing in through the open windows starts stirring up enough dust to send them both into admittedly hilarious sneezing fits—unbury a handful of dust rags, and do their best to wipe the place down as the washing machine and dryer—both _ancient_ —bump and rumble their ways through their various cycles.

Finally they both collapse onto the bare mattress—the sheets in the dryer—of the fold-out couch in the main living room, the coffee table pushed out of the way. Brett’s really too tall for it—has been for _years_ —but it’s where he and Lori had ended up relegated during large pack gatherings, when the rest of the bedrooms were taken up by the adults. 

He lays on his back, and closes his eyes, and with Lori laying next to him he can almost _hear_ the sounds of the younger members of the pack—relegated to mattress pads and pushed-together lines of cushions on the floor—breathing and snuffling quietly in their sleep.

He eases his eyes back open.

Lori’s already looking at him, her expression uncertain and her lip already between her teeth. Brett lifts his head so that he can tip it to the side as he brings it back down, and more easily look at her as he searches her face.

“What?” He murmurs. He doesn’t know why he’s being so quiet; they’re the only ones _here_.

They’re the only ones _left_.

Lori just bites her lip harder, and then jerks to turn her head back towards the ceiling. “Look, I—I know what I said, before we came,” she tells him, equally quiet. “About—about selling the place. I know how _insistent_ I was,” she admits, like she’s confessing to a crime, “but… _but…_ ”

“You don’t want to anymore,” Brett fills in.

Lori’s eyes fill with tears; he can smell it, as well as see the shiny reflection of them as she keeps staring fixedly at the ceiling. “I thought it’d be too hard,” she explains, choking a little on the words; the first tears escape her eyes, and go rolling down her temples. “And it—it _is_ , but…”

“It’s still home,” Brett agrees, turning so that he’s looking up at the ceiling, too. “It’s still _our_ home.”

“Yeah,” Lori breathes. “Yeah, it—” She doesn’t finish the thought, just suddenly curls over onto her side, pressing up against him. Brett immediately drops an arm around her, and pulls her in tighter. 

They stay just like that for some time, the bass, arhythmic rumble of the washer and dryer like a background track punctuated by the soft sounds of the wind whistling through the open windows. Brett stares up at the ceiling, thinking.

Finally the dryer clicks off, and the sudden absence of noise breaks Brett out of his train of thought. He blinks, and twists his neck some so that he can look down at Lori, still curled up against his chest. There’s a seed of possibility—of an _idea_ —that’s been germinating in his ribs now for some time—before they even _got_ here—and now it’s starting to crack open, and grow.

“It’s a pretty big house,” he ventures, meeting Lori’s eyes when she glances up at him. “Just for the two of us, I mean.”

Lori bites her lip, but she doesn’t look _disturbed_ by his suggestion; she looks caught out. Nervously anticipatory. She raises up some so that she can peer down at him. 

“Doesn’t _have_ to be just the two of us,” she replies, just as offhand as he’d tried for and just as unsuccessful. 

Brett looks at her, surprised. He hadn’t thought… “You actually _want_ …?”

She colors, and then shrugs as she sits up fully. She looks away as she tangles her fingers together in her lap, her fingers twisting and twisting. “Maybe not. Not _bitten_ , at first,” she explains, sneaking him a glance. “But, like. Collecting strays seems to work out for _McCall_ ,” she points out, and there’s judgement in her voice, sure, but there’s also—something else. Jealousy, maybe. Admiration. Brett stares. Lori shrugs again. “Maybe it could work out for us, too.”

Brett studies her for a little longer, and then he drops his head back, staring back up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, something in his chest twisting just like Lori’s fingers. “Yeah, maybe—maybe it could.”

_**Liam** _

“This place,” Mason says, spinning around a little in an awed circle as he looks around, “is _amazing_.”

Liam smirks, trailing along after Mason with his hands in his pockets. “That would have been _way less_ abominably nerdy if we hadn’t just come out of the campus library.”

Mason makes a face, but doesn’t deny it. There’s a low wall bordering the building; he drops onto it and starts immediately flipping through the packet of informational material he’s been holding since the campus tour guide had handed them out earlier. Liam shakes his head and laughs a little under his breath, and then drops down next to him. 

He does _not_ pull out his copy of the informational material, which he’d shoved at his mother almost immediately after being handed it; he already feels immeasurably uncool next to the roving herds of students wandering around in their UCLA hoodies. Instead he does his best to watch those same students without _looking_ like he’s watching them. _There_ have _to be other werewolves on-campus, right?_ Liam had asked first Scott, who’d shrugged, and then Theo, who’d shrugged, and then _Lydia_ , who’d given him a dry look and said _that is how_ probability _works, yes_ , before he’d finally asked _Derek_ , who’d said _yes_ , and then proceeded to go back to paying attention to whatever he’d been doing instead of answering Liam’s asinine questions.

Still, Liam hasn’t been able to sense any. Not that he’s one-hundred percent positive that he’d be _able_ to; he grimaces, and—for a split-second—feels a sharp scratch of jealousy for the effortless way Theo and Brett and everyone else seems to be able to flare their nostrils and just _know_.

But he’s distracted from it almost immediately after when Corey reappears, juggling three cups of coffee from the campus library cafe between his hands. “Ow, ow, hot,” he’s muttering to himself, because—as per usual—he’d apparently forgotten the little paper sleeves, and he keeps having to shift his burning fingers while _also_ trying not to spill their drinks.

Mason stands up to rescue him from himself, because Mason is a saint of a person in addition to Corey’s boyfriend. Corey grins at him and gives him a peck of a kiss, and then drops down onto the free stretch of wall on Mason’s other side. He also takes a drink of his own coffee and then immediately yelps as he burns his tongue.

Liam rolls his eyes and accepts his coffee from Mason, before setting it pointedly next to him. Corey makes a face and fakes a laugh, but—more importantly—also sets his drink aside.

Mason sets his between his feet, and goes back to perusing the informational material. Or, more specifically, the schedule of events; Mason runs his finger down the page—stopping and tapping once at ‘explorational hour,’ which Liam still thinks is an inexcusably dumb name—and then taps at the item right below it.

“So it looks like we’ve got another twenty minutes or so before we have to go meet back up with our parents,” Mason says, glancing at Liam and then at Corey. “Anything you guys want to do before then?”

“In the ‘explorational hour?’” Corey mutters; Liam smirks, even as Mason is elbowing him.

“Sit,” Liam offers, once they’ve settled down. “I want to _sit_. We’ve been walking around and listening to the tour guides drone on since this _morning_.”

“Like you’ve even _heard_ anything they’ve said,” Mason counters, now rolling _his_ eyes. But then his expression softens, and he peers intently at Liam’s face. “Are you still thinking about what Scott said?”

Liam’s face falls and his whole body sags. “Ma _son_ ,” he complains, groaning, drawing out the last part of Mason’s name.

“Li _am_ ,” Mason returns, deliberately copying him. Liam snaps his mouth shut; it _is_ incredibly annoying. Mason studies him for a few seconds, and then grimaces sympathetically. “Look, why don’t you just _talk_ to Theo? He could—”

Liam cuts him off. “No point, remember? Scott said we _all_ have to let him go.”

“Yeah,” Mason agrees. “Except he wasn’t talking to you. I mean he _literally_ wasn’t talking to you,” he reminds Liam pointedly. “You eavesdropped on that conversation.”

Liam flushes. “So? It doesn’t—” He tries to argue, but Mason is still talking, and deliberately talking _over_ him, getting louder every time _Liam_ tries to get louder.

“He was talking to the _Sheriff_ , and _Argent_ , about like, not arresting Theo, or throwing him in some super secret hunter prison, or whatever, once the bracelet comes off,” Mason insists doggedly; they’ve had this argument a few times now.

“So _what?_ ” Liam finally manages to cut in. “It doesn’t change the fact that Theo _wants_ to leave.”

“I don’t think he wants to leave,” Corey suddenly opines. It’s so unexpected that both Liam and Mason immediately shut up to turn and stare at him, Liam having to lean forward to see him around Mason’s body. “What?” Corey says, widening his eyes when he notices their attention. “I _don’t_.”

Liam hesitates. “Then, why do you think…?”

Corey shrugs. “I think he thinks h _e has_ to leave.”

“Why would he think,” Mason starts to say, at the same time that Liam frowns and mutters, “What does _that_ mean?” And then he frowns deeper, and—admittedly—glares a little at Corey as he accuses, “And I thought you’d be _glad_. You _hate_ Theo.”

Corey rolls his eyes. “I don’t _hate_ Theo,” he denies. He also reaches for his coffee, and takes another tentative sip of it. When it apparently doesn’t burn him again, he takes a larger drink. Finally he looks back up at Mason and Liam again and shrugs. “I just can’t look at him without immediately seeing Josh and Tracy, so.”

Both Mason and Liam wince, Liam hard enough that he accidentally elbows his own coffee and has to twist around—a little supernaturally fast, and he spares half a second to fervently hope no one saw it—to rescue his cup from falling off the little wall. When he looks back up, coffee safe, Corey is frowning thoughtfully at _him_.

“And, you know,” he points out, “if that’s how _I_ feel, imagine how _he’s_ got to feel. He’s the one who’s got to wake up every morning and live with himself.”

He looks away, down at his lap. His fingers flick against the edge of the plastic lid of his coffee, making these odd little _twanging_ noises that saw a little at Liam’s ears. But he barely hears them. He keeps staring at Corey, open-mouthed and stunned.

Finally Corey sighs, and concludes, “Theo wants to be this new person, right, the one who came out of the skinwalker prison? But,” he continues, without waiting for them to agree or disagree, “he’s still _him_. He’s still the person who did all the things he did. He always will be.”

Done with his analysis, apparently, Corey shrugs again and drinks more of his coffee. He’s not looking at Mason or Liam—he’s not looking at _Liam_ , really, Liam’s under no illusions who Corey’s worried about—but instead looking out at the campus, like he finds the nondescript clumps of students and professors wandering around fascinating; like he didn’t just verbally vivisect Theo more completely and accurately than Liam’s ever heard _anyone_ —including Theo himself—manage. Liam doesn’t know what to say.

They wind up sitting in silence for a minute or two, Liam eventually twisting around to retrieve his coffee in order to force himself to stop gaping at Corey. He winds up sitting with it between his knees, just like Corey had, and after a while he finds himself plucking at the lid to produce that same _twanging_ sound, just for something to do. 

Just for a _distraction_.

It’s Mason who finally sucks in a deep breath, and exhales it back out as he wonders aloud, “I wonder what he’ll do. Where he’ll go.”

Corey snorts, but it’s not actually a mean sound. Just a little dry. “Probably he’ll retreat into the woods to live as a hermit, or some shit.”

He means it as a joke, probably, but Liam thinks he’s—probably right. That ultimately that sounds _exactly_ like what Theo would choose to do. Hide away in the woods, where the only person he has to live with—the only person who has to live with _him_ , and all the things he’s never going to be able to take back—is himself. 

Liam feels, suddenly, immeasurably sad.

“Hey,” Mason murmurs, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Liam lets himself fall against Mason, jostling them both into Corey, who leans back, against Mason’s other side. “This is all still just—hypothetical, right? Theo hasn’t gone anywhere yet. He might _not_.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees noncommittally, rocking with Mason when Mason shakes him a little, but with the vaguest memory of waking up at Theo’s—in Theo’s _bed_ —a few days ago, miserably hungover and with only the briefest snatches of memory from the night before, and with Theo _looking_ at him with this expression on his face, like he was already doing it from a million miles away, from across the _country_ ; from an uncrossable, unreachable distance. 

“Yeah,” he repeats, and tries to inject a little more force into his voice, and hopes that he sounds more believable to Mason and Corey than he does to himself. 

_**Theo** _

Theo hasn’t been back to this storage unit in—he absently calculates the time—over a year, so it’s really no surprise that the second he slides the bay door up, and open, he’s hit with a cloud of dust so extreme that he has to spend a good few minutes just coughing and sneezing to clear his lungs.

Luckily there’s no one else around, because he can feel his eyes flaring as he hacks away. “Fuck,” he wheezes, and—changing plans—leaves the door open as he finally steps inside.

Once he can finally breathe normally again, he spends a few minutes walking around, double-checking all his locks and protections and traps, but as far as he can tell everything seems to be—minus the thick coating of dust—just as he’d left it. Crouching down, he wipes a layer of dust from the top of a nondescript-looking trunk and—puncturing the tip of one finger with a claw—touches his now-bloody fingertip to the edge. The locking magic disengages with a muted glow, and Theo hooks his fingers underneath the lid and flips it open even as the light is still fading.

The plants inside are green and blooming and even the scent of them immediately starts biting at Theo’s nose, the back of his throat. He slides one sleeve down over his hand and runs his covered fingers over the leaves and stems and bright flowers, but the magic had held; the various wolfsbane plants are perfectly healthy. 

Removing his hand, Theo slams the lid back down, and reengages the locking magic.

The rest of the unit is filled with much more random items. A flimsy cardboard closet meant for transporting clothes that should have disintegrated ages ago, stuffed with shirts and jeans and one particular, too-small sweater that Theo spends some time with his fingers resting against, before he forces himself to move on. A stack of framed pictures in a box that Theo resolutely ignores, and—after the twisting in chest gets _unbearable_ —eventually throws a sheet over. 

But it’s the small wooden cabinet—also magically protected from the elements, and magically locked—that he first crouches down, and then eventually sits, in front of. The locking magics on this one are more complicated—Theo winces as he recalls, not particularly fondly, what he’d had to trade to the smarmy-looking Darach who’d crafted them—and it takes him a while to bring them all down, stripping them away one at a time until finally he can hook his fingers in the little metal handles of the doors of the cabinet, and open it.

He pauses, once he does—he’d already been keeping an ear out for anyone approaching as he’d been working the various magics—but he’s still alone. Exhaling out a rough breath—and then immediately regretting it when it stirs up another little whirlwind of dust—Theo reaches forward, and starts running his fingers over the spines of the books inside.

Half of them are old, these leather-bound monstrosities with stiff, yellowed pages, and enough magic soaked into them that they spark against Theo’s fingers, burning him. But the other half are more nondescript: hard-backed journals and a handful of moleskines and even the odd spiral-bound notebook. Theo lingers over these, digging through his memory as he does to recall the origins of each, before he finds the one he’d been looking for.

He tilts it out of its place among its fellows with the tip of a finger, and then pulls it out. It’s a cheap journal—the kind bought on a whim while waiting in a department store check-out line—but the penmanship filling it is neat. _Emogene Storo named me her ambassador to the La Grande pack today, which I still maintain was a mistake_ , the first line reads; Theo smirks softly to himself, and flips the journal back closed as he sets it to his side.

All told, he spends more than an hour flipping through the various books and journals in the cabinet. He’d come specifically to get the small pile he pulls out first, but he ends up lingering over some of the others, slotting them out of their places one at a time and flipping through them. The majority of the leather-bound monstrosities he leaves alone— _firmly_ alone—but the journals he has a harder time putting down. 

He ends up adding a handful more to his pile, before he’s done.

The sun is starting to set by the time he finishes up. He spends fifteen or so minutes circling the unit, ensuring that the protections and locks—and traps—are all back in place, and then he gathers up the selection of books he’d retrieved, and closes and locks the storage unit door. 

Back at the motel he’d chosen—paid for with some of the cash that Theo had slowly been pulling from Peter’s account, never more than forty dollars at a time and never enough to raise suspicions—he sets the pile of books carefully on the table in the dinette area, and goes to shower off the layer of grime he couldn’t help but accumulate while in the unit. 

It’s dark outside by the time he gets out, and the room is dark; Theo flares his eyes as he steps out, towel around his waist, and goes to check his phone. There are no messages, which means either Argent _hadn’t_ checked on his whereabouts, or he _had_ , and the motel was close enough—as planned—to Satomi’s farmhouse that Argent had assumed Theo was in fact with Brett and Lori. Either way, Theo exhales out a relieved breath, and goes to get dressed.

He falls asleep reading Emogene Storo’s ambassador’s journal, primarily because the writer’s dry sense of humor comes through, and it’s a genuinely enjoyable read. But he wakes up—piled under every blanket he could find—already shivering, and with his phone vibrating away angrily to itself on the nightstand.

_Shit_ , Theo thinks muzzily, his teeth clacking, and slaps out a hand to retrieve his phone and answer it without checking to see who it is.

He doesn’t _need_ to check who it is.

“I’m fine, Brett,” he says, the second he manages to bring it up to his ear. 

“You’re a shitty liar,” Brett retorts. There’s some kind of background noise, scratching and constant; the wind. He’d stepped outside, probably to try and avoid waking Lori.

“I’m a _great_ liar,” Theo counters, and all without irony, or defensiveness; he _is_ a great liar. He’s just not lying _now_. “I really _am_ fine,” he insists, more quietly. “This is—barely anything. Minor flare-up. It’ll pass soon on its own.”

Brett’s quiet for a few seconds. “Where are you?” He finally asks.

That’d been part of their deal: Theo would risk lying to Argent and Scott and the others about accompanying Brett and Lori on their spring break trip to Satomi’s farmhouse, and Brett wouldn’t demand to know where he was going instead. Theo sighs, exhausted, into his phone’s speaker; he hears the feedback of it crackle over the line.

“I’m not telling you that,” Theo replies, instead of reminding Brett about their agreement.

Another few seconds crawl by. Theo shivers through it, his teeth pressed together to keep them from clacking. Finally Brett says, “I could call the McCall pack. Ask them to track you for me.”

Theo just snorts. “You wouldn’t do that to me,” he concludes, and it’s not even a _question_ ; it’s just a fact. 

Brett doesn’t pretend otherwise. “Theo…”

“I’m _fine_ , Brett,” Theo repeats. “Seriously, this is—nothing.” _I can still move_ , Theo thinks, but doesn’t say. _I can still think_ , his thoughts not frozen and sluggish and glacially-slow. 

Brett just mutters, “It doesn’t fucking _feel_ like nothing,” but it’s sullen, low; a petulant complaint. Not a threat, or an attempt at an argument. Theo finds himself grinning softly into the rough weave of the motel pillowcase. There’s another few seconds of silence, and then Brett suddenly asks, “How much longer? You said it’ll pass on it’s own. How much longer?”

Theo frowns at the ceiling, brow furrowing. “Not sure,” he finally answers. “It’s not _that_ predictable.”

Brett doesn’t say anything, until he does. “A mouse got into the farmhouse,” he suddenly tells Theo, apropos of nothing. “We didn’t realize for the first few hours, and then it was like all hell broke loose as we tried to find the fucker.”

Theo’s laughing softly even as he’s thinking _why are you telling me this_. “You’re werewolves. It couldn’t have been _that_ hard to catch.”

“Oh, yes,” Brett agrees, “because we could just use our werewolf ability to _phase through walls_ to trap it.”

This time Theo _laughs_. 

Brett keeps talking. He finishes telling Theo about the mouse—which he and Lori did eventually catch, apparently—and then he tells Theo about the rest of the farmhouse, describing the various rooms and the kitschy artwork and figurines that Satomi collected primarily because she found them funny; little items picked up by her, or the pack, from their various travels and all brought back home to the farmhouse. He tells Theo about his and Lori’s stopover in the little Oregon bordertown, and the exact sound Lori had made when she’d realized what was happening. Theo finds himself responding, half-asleep and still shivering and probably making no sense, but Brett doesn’t stop; he just keeps talking.

He talks long enough, in fact, that Theo’s shivering eventually stops. Theo feels the realization like a punch to solar plexus when it hits him, and he has to close his eyes and turn his face against the pillow to hide his expression, even though there’s no one around to see it.

“You son of a bitch,” he mumbles, low and muffled and a little choked-sounding. 

“Will it come back tonight?” Brett asks, not even bothering to pretend he doesn’t know what Theo’s talking about.

“No,” Theo tells him, after a second. “No, it’s—they’re one and done, usually.” He winces; he hadn’t meant to add that _usually_.

Brett’s silent on the other end as he considers this. “You’ll call me if it does,” he declares, and it’s not a request. “Seriously, Theo. Otherwise I’ll—”

“Simmer down,” Theo interrupts, and grins to himself because he can practically _hear_ Brett’s annoyance. But then he sobers, some. “I will,” he finally says, then: “If only to keep you from doing something drastic.”

This time it’s _Brett_ who snorts. “How generous.”

“I’m a generous guy,” Theo mumbles back, but it’s automatic, reflex; his eyelids are already drooping shut.

There’s a few seconds of silence, then: “‘Night, Theo,” Brett murmurs, so apparently he’d caught—or sensed, or whatever—Theo’s slow slide back into sleep.

“Night, Brett,” Theo returns, and doesn’t bother to hang up, just lets his phone fall backwards, behind himself and away from his ear; it’d lock itself.

_Thanks_ , he thinks, and he could be thinking it to himself but really he’s thinking it _at_ the small, tangled-up _awareness_ sitting tucked up underneath the base of his skull: _it means sleeping with an alpha has_ consequences _, asshole_.

_Thanks_ , he thinks again, and is asleep before he can think anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm cracking. Apparently I'm too impatient to take this long to post a story. Learning yourself is a constant journey, eh?
> 
> Three up today, two tomorrow (though probably broken up one in the morning, one at night) and the last two on Monday. Come, join me in my lack of self-control.
> 
> My apologies as this probably means folks get three emails right in a row.

_**Brett** _

In Brett’s defense, he doesn’t mean to fall back into bed with Theo.

He doesn’t think Theo means to fall back into bed with him either, but here they are: sweat-slick and side-by-side and still breathing hard under the single sheet on Theo’s bed, which still smells like stale laundry detergent and Liam’s wolfsbane-laced sweat from that night he’d gotten miserably drunk; apparently Theo or Liam or a combination of the two had moved Liam to the bed after Brett had left. Brett groans, and—trying to ignore the way that the room smells like sex and Theo and Liam and _himself_ , all tangled up together—covers his face with his hands.

Theo snorts a laugh, but it’s not malicious. It _is_ a little dryly knowing, because the second Brett had shown up at his door—Ms. Babej’s latest lab assignment held up in his hand, and a preemptive wince already all over his face—Theo had gotten a look on his face like he’d just _known_ exactly where the whole farce would dead-end.

He’d still let Brett in, though.

He also sits up, his bare chest only just losing the last of the marks from Brett’s mouth, his fingers, and Brett has to quickly shove down the reflexive bolt of arousal that goes through him at the sight. Theo’s eyes dilate, a little, as he glances over, and for a moment Brett nearly thinks _fuck it_ —they’re young, and supernaturals; they could _absolutely_ go another round—but he swallows it down, and stays where he is instead of reaching for Theo.

Theo smirks, softly, and leans down to retrieve his pants from the floor. He swings his legs over the side of the bed as he starts to slide them on, and hops down onto his feet as he pulls them up, and over his hips. Brett watches the flex and roll of his back muscles, and does nothing.

But he can’t stop himself from saying, “I almost feel like I should apologize,” like a confession. 

Theo twists around to look at him, sitting back on the edge of the bed as he goes. “But?”

“But I’m not actually sorry,” Brett tells him, and _that_ comes out sounding like an apology, too.

Theo smirks again, and laughs a little besides. “That and, you know, it’s every guy’s dream to get _apologized_ _to_ after sex.” He’s clearly not actually worried about it; he leans over as he finishes saying it, and retrieves something off his nightstand. “Actually this works out,” he says, and swings his legs back up on the bed so that he’s sat up against the wall, stretched out next to Brett, as he hands over the book he’d retrieved. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”

Brett twists himself up onto one elbow as he takes the book, brow furrowing. “What’s this?” He asks, as he starts idly flipping through it.

“Journal,” Theo answers easily, and a little unnecessarily; Brett had already started scanning through it, and realized the same thing. But then Theo continues, “It was written by one of the Denio pack alphas, back at the turn of the last century. He was,” Theo adds, then hesitates. “He was young, too,” he finally concludes. He’s not looking at Brett when Brett glances up at him, but at his fingers picking at each other in his lap.

“Hernando Sisniega,” Brett reads, turning to the inside cover. “Holy shit, this is—” He exclaims, and looks up at Theo incredulously. This time Theo _is_ looking back, and with a small smile on his face. “This is Rosalia’s ancestor.” He sits up so that he can better flip through the journal, his eyes roving avidly over the pages. “God, the Denio pack is one of the strongest in the _country_. They’re like—like werewolf _royalty_.” 

He pauses, suddenly, and glances up at Theo, brow furrowed.

“How the hell did you get this…?” He wonders, his eyes searching Theo’s face.

Theo’s soft, pleased expression _slams_ shut. He jerks his gaze away from Brett’s, and in doing so manages to tear a strip of skin off one of his nails that he’d been picking at. Brett hisses at the unexpected bite of blood in the air, and sets the book—carefully—aside so he can reach for Theo’s hands.

But _now_ Theo doesn’t let Brett touch him. He jerks away, and slides off the bed so that he’s standing next to it instead, his back to Brett. He tips his chin at the stack of books still sitting on the nightstand. 

“Same way I got all of those,” he answers harshly, and it takes Brett a moment to remember his earlier question: _how the hell did you get this_. “I stole them.”

He says it like that’s the end of the explanation, but Brett’s not buying it; he’s _sure_ it’s not that simple. He sits up fully, and swings around so that he’s facing Theo’s back directly, though he makes no move to approach him. “Stole them from _who?_ ”

“Who do you _think?_ ” Theo snarls, whipping around to glare at him. “From the Denio pack, and the Storo pack, and the Harbron pack back east.” He smirks, but it’s not soft this time; it’s sharp-edged and sneering and meant to wound. “And I’ve got a whole collection of them.”

He’s trying to make Brett angry. Brett just watches him, his eyes searching Theo’s face. “The Dread Doctors,” he realizes slowly. “You stole them from the packs while you were with the Dread Doctors. While the Dread Doctors were…” 

He trails off, these individual threads of horror starting to track through his mind as he considers what, exactly, the Dread Doctors might have been doing around each of those packs, and apparently close enough to them that Theo could steal priceless pack heirlooms. Brett glances back at Hernando Sisniega’s journal laying closed on the bed.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says, sidestepping the issue of the Dread Doctors for the moment because he just _can’t_ , and he’s pretty sure that Theo can’t either. He looks back up at Theo. “Why take the journals?”

Theo seems to deflate, a little; he’d expected a fight, maybe, and now that he’s not getting one—now that Brett is refusing to give him one—he can’t seem to hold onto his sharp-mouthed sneer. He brings up his hands to scrub roughly at his face, and replies, voice muffled: “Because the Doctors would have destroyed them otherwise.”

Brett stares. “What?”

Theo drops his hands, but he can’t seem to look Brett in the eye, yet. He stares at the bedroom’s window, though he can’t be seeing much; the shades are down. He exhales roughly. “They had me steal the journals because they were looking for—for clues, for hints of _magic_ , anything that could help them resurrect the Beast. But once they turned out to be useless…” He shrugs, and then crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

Brett watches him for a few seconds longer, and then he touches his tongue to his bottom lip, and glances at the stack of other journals still sitting by the bed. He makes a decision.

“Can I?” He asks quietly, reaching out a hand towards the journals demonstratively.

Theo’s expression spasms, but finally he shrugs roughly. He also spins in a tight circle, after, so that he can drop heavily down on the very edge of the bed, his face in his hands. Brett makes sure to leave a good six inches of space between them as he reaches the rest of the way forward, and retrieves the first journal.

He flips it open, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You got this for Liam,” he realizes, staring down at the first line: _Emogene Storo named me her ambassador to the La Grande pack today, which I still maintain was a mistake_.

“...yeah,” Theo admits after a few seconds. _Now_ he glances sideways at Brett, his hands dropped down to dangle between his knees.

Brett bites his lip. “And the others?”

“There’s another for Liam,” Theo answers. Then he stops, and looks at Brett, his eyes flicking over Brett’s face: his eyes, his mouth, the curve of his cheek. “The rest are for you.”

Brett looks back at him for a few seconds, and then drops his eyes back down to the journal still in his hands. “So you’re really doing it, then,” he murmurs, the realization coiling up tight and poisonous in his chest. “You’re really leaving.”

Theo flinches. “You knew that,” he tries.

Brett just snorts, humorlessly. “Yeah, well,” he counters, and holds up the journal in his hands with a little wiggle. “I didn’t have physical _proof_ before.” He drops it back down into his lap, and looks back up at Theo. “These aren’t going to be a substitute for you, you know. For me _or_ Liam.”

Theo grimaces. “Yeah, well. It’s the best I’ve got.”

Brett feels a flare of anger in his chest, sharp and unexpected. “No, it _isn’t_. No, it—” He cuts off on a frustrated, bitten-off sound. “You could _stay_ , you jackass. You could—”

“ _No_ ,” Theo interrupts, surging back to his feet as he does so, “I _can’t_.” He stares at Brett, nostrils flared and his shoulders moving roughly with his sudden harsh breathing. “For fuck’s sake, Brett. Think about what you’re holding. Think about where I _got_ them from. About _why_. It—” He cuts off with his own frustrated sound. “You and Liam both, you need—the chance at a normal life. With someone who—”

“Isn’t you?” Brett fills in bitingly.

Theo flinches again, and then he clenches his jaw, and meets Brett’s eyes head-on. “It’s all just chemicals anyway,” he spits out, and Brett can feel his brow furrowing, confused. Theo snorts, bitterly, and looks away as he explains, “How he feels about me. How _you_ feel about me. It’s all just—adrenaline and endorphins and gratitude for being alive mixing with your memories of me, since I was there.”

Brett _stares_ at him. “You can’t actually believe that.”

“It’s _true_ ,” Theo counters. “Jesus, Brett. How do you think I _got_ all those journals? This is _exactly_ what I used to do to other packs. Inject myself into whatever turmoil they were experiencing, make myself part of the solution. And if there wasn’t already turmoil, I’d create it. And then the _same thing_ would happen,” he says. “They’d be so grateful, and so incapable of separating out how they felt about the situation from how they felt about _me_ , that they’d give me whatever I wanted.”

“You,” Brett says, incredulous, “you’re _unbelievable_. You can’t.” He stops, and tries to get his whirling thoughts in some kind of order. “Liam and I have _free will_ , asshole. We don’t—whatever, just because you _happened to be there_ in a chaotic time.”

Theo just smirks at him, but it’s—emptier than it usually is. More hopeless. “You sure?” He asks, and then snorts quietly and shakes his head lightly and looks away. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It—”

But Brett interrupts him. “What about you?” He demands, and looks steely-eyed back at Theo when Theo glances at him, narrow-eyed with surprise. “Is how _you_ feel about _us_ —” He feels a small bolt of _something_ go through him at that ‘us,’ because _assumptions, assumption_ s, but he pushes past it, “—just chemicals? Just—just adrenaline, and endorphins?”

Theo stares at him, his expression losing some of its mask-like quality, going softer, and a little surprised. He swallows, and his eyelashes flutter as he looks away. “How I feel about you _doesn't matter_ ,” he finally replies, and he sounds _tired_. Brett opens his mouth to snap something back but Theo just talks over him. “Look, I’m going to shower. Take the journals with you when you leave, or don’t.”

“Theo!” Brett yells, but Theo doesn’t listen, just turns on his heel and stalks away down the hallway, until he can turn into the bathroom and slam the door behind him. Brett hears the lock click.

_Fuck_ , Brett thinks, and drags his palms down his face. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then—hyper-aware of the sound of the shower starting up, and Theo’s too-fast heartbeat underneath it—he sets the journal Theo had retrieved for Liam carefully to the side, and retrieves Hernando Sisniega’s journal, and climbs one foot at a time out of Theo’s bed to start gathering up and pulling on his own clothes.

He takes the journals with him when he leaves. He doesn’t know what the hell else to do.

_**Liam** _

Liam finds Brett at the Devenford lacrosse field, sat on the home-team’s bench and curled over a notebook.

“Hey,” he greets, looking up at Liam as Liam approaches, and Liam greets _hey_ softly back. “What’s up?”

Liam shrugs, and drops down onto the bench next to him, swinging his backpack down between his feet as he goes. “Scott wanted me to ask if you needed anything. Before, you know, he left with Argent and Derek for their big intel gathering mission. Quest. Thing.”

Brett’s eyebrows climb. “Scott could have called me.”

Liam snorts, because that’s exactly what _he’d_ said to Scott when Scott had proposed this little field trip. “Yeah, well,” he replies. “Scott’s really leaning into this whole _ambassador_ thing.”

Brett echoes his snort, but his eyes are still shrewd on Liam’s face. “ _You_ could have called me,” he points out.

This time Liam just shrugs: _point granted_. Brett doesn’t push. Instead he goes back to looking down at the notebook in his lap, the pencil in his hand tap-tap-tapping against the open page. Liam peers down at what little he can see of it around Brett’s fingers, and bracing palm.

“Well I don’t know about what _else_ you might need,” he comments, “but looks like you sure as shit need some new plays. You can’t seriously be thinking of running these against Castilleja Prep. You’ll get _slaughtered_.”

Brett jerks to glare at him. “Fuck _you_ , Dunbar. And isn’t this like, a violation of the sportspersonship rules they make us all sign? Technically this is espionage.”

“Oh, shut up,” Liam shoots back, rolling his eyes. “We’re not even _playing_ you for the rest of the season.”

Brett makes a face, but then he glances back down at his notebook. “What the hell is wrong with my plays anyway?” He demands, glaring back up at Liam.

Liam looks incredulously back. “Are you _kidding_ me?” When Brett doesn’t do anything but continue to look mildly insulted and supremely annoyed, Liam stabs a finger down at his notebook. “These are _way too_ cautious. What are you trying to do, hide all your guys behind you and that tank of a midfielder Grossman like some kind of—” But he trails off, his mind catching up with his mouth, because: _oh_. 

That’s exactly what Brett was trying to do.

“Look, the Castilleja guys are _aggressive_ , sure, but—” Liam tries, a little lamely, but Brett just gives him an incredulous look.

“ _Aggressive?_ ” He repeats. “They’re _psychopaths_. Cate’s team walked off the field last week with two dislocated shoulders and a broken wrist between them.”

Liam winces. “Yeah, but,” he argues, “they’re _slow_. Like, crazy slow. They’re like big, lumbering trolls wandering around. They hit hard, but only if they can _catch_ you.”

Brett eyes him. “Have you ever _met_ a troll?”

“What? No!” Liam squawks, and then he squints suspiciously at Brett. “Why, have _you?_ Oh, my god,” he adds, eyes widening. “Are trolls _real?_ ” He hisses, both horrified and fascinated and more than a little schoolchild _intrigued_.

Brett just rolls his eyes. “Well, what do _you_ suggest, then? _My guys_ ,” he repeats, putting a judgy little emphasis on the words; Liam fakes a laugh: _ha, ha_ , “aren’t werewolves. They can’t just walk off an injury like you or I can.”

“Right, no,” Liam agrees, forcing himself to focus. “But you don’t need them to, right? You just need to keep them out of range of the Castilleja troll players.”

Brett gives him a skeptical look, and then glances out at the lacrosse field in front of them. “Out of range, huh?” He repeats. “Except that there isn’t much field for them to _range_ across.”

Liam just groans out a frustrated breath, and finally reaches over to tug the notebook and pencil from Brett’s hands. Brett bitches about it but lets them go after a second, and Liam brings both over into his own lap, and flips to a clean page. “That’s why you’ve got to prioritize _speed_ over everything else. Keep them moving.” 

He sketches out the barest shape of a play, trying to get his point across. Brett leans close, over his shoulder, so that he can see. “Hmm,” he hums. “But what about…?”

“Oh, right,” Liam agrees, looking where Brett is looking and flipping the pencil around so he can erase his original drawing, and correct it. “But if you do it like _that_ , then…”

Brett’s nodding, but his mouth is still set in a tight, uncertain line. “I mean, this would work, maybe. Or I _think_ it would work, anyway. It’s just hard to tell,” his eyes flick to the empty lacrosse field, and then back at Liam, “on paper.”

Liam catches his drift, and grins.

They end up testing plays for most of the rest of the afternoon, Brett eventually retrieving them both equipment from the lacrosse team’s shed so that they can practice actually throwing the ball back and forth as they run through them. They trade off playacting the Castilleja players so that Brett can further refine his strategy for keeping his teammates away from them, until finally Liam collapses down right in the middle of the field, panting.

“I don’t know man,” he says, practically _gasping_ for air. “I think you’ve got it.”

Brett’s staring thoughtfully out into the middle distance, his inner lip between his teeth. “Yeah,” he says finally, and reaches down to offer Liam a hand up. “Yeah, I think I do.”

They stumble—or _Liam_ does, anyway, Brett seems far less exhausted—back over to the bench, and their abandoned backpacks. Liam immediately rips his open, pulling out the bottle of gatorade he’d bought earlier that day at school and just guzzling it down. Brett watches him, clearly amused, and then his eyes flicker down to Liam’s open backpack. His expression spasms.

“What?” Liam wonders, taking a break from desperately downing his gatorade to frown at Brett.

Brett just tips his chin towards his bag. “What is that?”

Liam looks down, and then immediately flushes; he sincerely hopes Brett mistakes it for exertion. “Oh,” he mumbles, diving down to pull out the book. “Oh, it’s—it’s kind of cool, actually. Theo gave it to me.” He offers it over. “It’s a journal, written by an old pack ambassador.” Liam tries to grin airily at him, but it comes out a little shaky. “Apparently he felt incredibly unqualified, too.”

Brett takes the journal, very carefully. He doesn’t open it, just turns it over and over in his hands. “Interesting,” he says, and Liam can’t help but frown at the sudden strange tone to his voice, distant and a little hard. He jolts when all of the sudden Brett looks back up at him. “Where’d he get it?”

This time Liam _colors_ , and there's no hiding it under the guise of physical activity. “I, um,” he stammers, a brief, _barbed_ tendril of shame uncoiling in his gut. “I didn’t ask,” he admits.

Brett gives him a strange look. Liam sighs, and lets his eyes flicker away from Brett’s as he rolls his gatorade bottle around between his hands.

“He’s just been, you know,” Liam tries to explain. “And graduation is coming up so soon, and he,” Liam stops, and swallows. “I just,” he finally says, very quietly. “I got the sense he didn’t want me to pry into it, and it was a really nice gesture, so I just—didn’t.”

Brett’s quiet for a few seconds. Liam looks up at him, and then freezes, caught by the expression—raw, a little, with hooded eyes and a bitter twist to his mouth—on Brett’s face. Brett offers him back the book. “That was nice of you,” he observes. Liam nods, dumbly. 

They stand there in another awkward few seconds of silence, and then Brett clears his throat. “Well, thanks, you know. For coming. You can tell McCall—tell _Scott_ —that I. That I don’t need anything. I’m good.”

“Oh,” Liam exclaims, only now remembering the original purpose of his visit. “Oh, right. Yeah. I’ll tell him.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds longer, and then Brett seems to shake himself out of it. He leans down, and starts gathering up his stuff. “I should get home. Lori wanted to try a new recipe she found on the Internet tonight, so, you know. I should go make sure the apartment complex is still standing.”

Liam makes himself laugh, a little, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t, cringing. “Yeah, good idea,” he forces himself to say. “I’ll, um. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure,” Brett agrees noncommittally, and then he gives a little wave as he starts to walk away, bag slung over his shoulder.

Liam watches him go, Theo’s gifted journal still in his hands, and then he sags, some, when Brett’s out of sight, and lets himself flop down onto the bench with a groan. “Idiot,” he mutters to himself, though he’s not even sure what he did _wrong_. He looks down at the journal in his hands, tipping it back and forth in the late afternoon sunlight. 

Finally he gets sick of himself, and he bites off a frustrated noise and reaches down to snag his backpack, the journal now held safely in one hand as he heads for his SUV to head back home. 

_**Theo** _

Scott is packing up the Jeep when Theo rounds the side of the McCall house looking for him.

“Hey!” Scott greets cheerfully, and just slightly out of breath. He’s in the middle of shoving a bag on top of the Jeep’s roof, presumably to be strapped down later, or Theo’s sure he would have waved.

“You—wanted to see me?” Theo ventures, hovering close to the Jeep’s left front tire.

Scott makes a face. “God, don’t say it like _that_ ,” he complains goodnaturedly. 

But in his distraction he loses hold of the bag he’d been steadying, and it starts to slip back down towards the ground; Theo darts forward reflexively and catches it, and then helps Scott wrestle it back onto the Jeep’s roof. Scott spends a few seconds staring at the bag with his arms raised, clearly waiting to see if it’s going to make another break for it, and then when it stays quiescent and where they’d left it, he drops his arms back down and brushes his hands together in front of his chest, like he was brushing dirt off of them. He grins at Theo when he’s done.

“Hi,” he says. “How are you?” He’s practically bleeding sincerity, and genuine—if absentminded—interest. Theo finds himself smiling in spite of the twisted up ball of uncertainty in his chest.

“Scott,” he murmurs, a little exasperated.

Scott just grins again. “Yeah, okay. Pleasantries skipped. I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” he explains. “We’re _definitely_ going to be back before graduation, but—”

“Before graduation,” Theo interrupts, shocked, before Scott can finish. “That’s _three weeks_ from now. You really think you’ll be gone that long?”

Scott shrugs easily. “Dunno. It’ll depend on what we find, but Argent’s convinced this is the best lead we’ve had in a while, so.” He grins at Theo again. 

He also nods at the bracelet around Theo’s wrist.

“I also,” he says evenly, “wanted to give you a heads-up that _that_ is coming off after graduation.”

Theo _stares_ at him, his right hand coming reflexively over to cover his left wrist, touching his fingers to the leather; hiding it from view. Scott’s smile goes softer at the edges, his eyes a little darker.

“I already talked to Argent and the Sheriff about it,” he continues, when Theo does nothing but continue to look at him, stunned. He also brings up a hand to pat at and then tug on one of the straps already holding a hardshell black case to the roof, his eyes on his fingers. “You’ve held up your end of the deal, and have been a _model_ prisoner—” He tilts his head to give Theo a knowing, self-deprecating smile, “—so.”

Theo doesn’t know what the hell to say, so finally he just swallows, and echoes, “So.”

Scott laughs a little, easy and under his breath. Acknowledging the awkwardness without adding to it; sharing the joke. Theo can’t help the flicker of his own lips. Scott glances back up at the strap he’d been playing around with and gives it one last tug, and then he turns to the pile of bags still sitting just outside the side door into the McCall house, and picks up the top one. 

“Any idea where you’ll go, when you leave?” He wonders, huffing with exertion as he lifts the bag up, and over his head, his eyes fixed on his hands.

Theo has to shove down the automatic urge he feels to go help him again, and stays where he is. “What,” he manages, voice a little croaky, “you’re not even going to _pretend_ like me leaving is an open question?”

Scott gets the latest bag shoved onto the roof, and just tilts his head to grin at Theo again. “I mean, I could,” he offers, dropping his arms and pausing in reaching for the next bag to look at Theo head-on. “It just seemed a little pointless.”

Some of the amusement in Theo’s chest twists around on itself, and becomes something else. He drops his eyes, the heel of his right palm rubbing against the leather of the bracelet around his wrist. “Yeah,” he finally agrees, granting Scott the point.

“So?” Scott prompts, easy and relaxed and benignly curious; Theo glances back up at him. “Any idea?”

Theo’s lips quirk. “No offense,” he murmurs quietly, “but telling you seems…”

“Unwise, all things considered,” Scott finishes for him. He laughs again; that same easy, self-aware laugh. “Fair enough.” 

But then his laughter peters out, and he sucks in a short breath between his teeth, before he sighs it back out. Theo feels his brow furrow as he meets Scott’s eyes.

“Look, just. One thing,” Scott says, suddenly serious. Suddenly _true alpha_ solemn. “You know you _could_ stay, right? You know that’s an option, that you’d be welcome to?” 

Theo stares at him, caught and held by Scott’s gaze. As much as some squirming thing in his chest _wants_ to look away, Theo can’t. He swallows, and replies, hoarse, and honest: “I know.”

Scott searches his eyes, his face, for a few seconds longer, and then he blinks; the moment breaks. Theo immediately drops his gaze as Scott looks away, the heel of his right palm still rubbing against his left wrist—against the bracelet—rubbing _harder_ ; digging in. 

“Okay,” Scott acknowledges quietly, and Theo thinks that’ll be the end of it: message sent and received. But then Scott ducks his head a little lower, clearly trying to catch Theo’s eyes again, and Theo looks up before he can help it. “You _also_ know you could come back, right?”

“Scott,” Theo breathes, before he can stop himself.

Scott just grins, crinkle-eyed. “Seriously,” he insists. “Any time you like, you just roll right back into town, and we’ll be here. You could even,” the look on Scott’s face goes a little sly, “come _back_ , and then leave _again_ , and then come back again. However many times you want. Unlimited pass.”

The twisted-up former-amusement in Theo’s chest is growing thorns, and pricking at Theo’s lungs, his heart; climbing up the inside of his ribcage like a trellis and squeezing out his ability to breathe. If he’s not careful it’s going to climb the rest of the way up his throat, and bloom all over his face; Theo has to clear his throat, and go for the joke.

“I can see where Liam got his dorky charm from,” he forces out, his attempt at levity just completely let down by his scratched-up voice.

Scott’s lips quirk gently. “Yeah, I’ve got a theory incurable nerdiness is communicable via werewolf bite. Poor kid never had a chance.”

He’s talking about Liam, but he also might be—talking about something— _someone—_ else. Theo swallows, and forces himself to take a step back. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“I should. If there’s nothing else?” He manages. “Traffic back to Devenford is only going to get worse, so.”

Scott grins, and nods, and makes a little shooing motion with his hands. “Nope, nothing else. You’re free to go.” He pauses, and looks considering. “Well, within limits, clearly.”

He’s joking; Theo rolls his eyes, the weight in his chest easing some in spite of himself. “You’re hilarious,” he tells Scott dryly. “Master comedian.”

“Aren’t I?” Scott agrees, but absently; he’d already started to reach for the next bag. 

It’s a kindness; it’s meant to give Theo the opportunity to escape without Scott watching after him. Theo takes it, calling a last goodbye over his shoulder as he pivots on his heel and _goes_ , before Scott can think of something else to say or _Theo_ can open his mouth and let something else fall out.

He’s right about the traffic, but he barely notices the commuter crunch; he’d reached into his glove compartment when he’d first climbed into his truck, and unfolded the map he’d marked up with its little X’s—starting with _Nevada first_ —and set it on the passenger seat.

He spends the entire ride back to Devenford glancing at it, his left elbow braced against his door handle and his braceleted wrist resting against his cheek, one finger between his teeth as he looks at those X’s and hears Scott go _you could stay,_ hears him say _you could come back_ , just that, over and over again.

_You could stay. You could come back._


	8. Chapter 8

_**Brett** _

“So this is really it, then,” Brett says blankly, staring down at the stack of papers—a literal _stack_ ; it’s at least a centimeter thick—that he’d just spent the last half-hour flipping through, signing or initialing on every line Filipo had pointed to, or which had been marked with a little flag. He’s still holding the pen. He sets it down, and flexes his fingers; in the seconds before his healing kicks in, they feel stiff, and cramped.

“That’s it,” Filipo agrees easily, and leans over to gently slide the stack towards himself. 

He’d sat next to Brett in the second of the chairs set in front of his desk, rather than across from him. He stays there as he flips through the pages, apparently double-checking that Brett hadn’t missed anything. Once he’s satisfied, he drops the stack into his lap and smiles at Brett.

“These technically won’t enter force until your diploma is actually on file with the school, but that’ll be automatic—you don’t need to worry about doing anything else,” Filipo assures him. 

Brett nods again, still a little shell-shocked. Filipo had shown him the numbers again: the bank accounts, the property, the trusts. It still doesn’t seem real. Brett jumps a little when Filipo pushes himself to his feet with an exaggerated groan, but underneath it Brett still hears the creak of his joints, the _pop_ of his resettling spine. 

“Still, I’d like to set up monthly meetings with you, if that’s alright,” Filipo continues as he starts to round his desk. “Just regular check-ins to make sure everything is in order, and deal with any blips that come up.”

“Blips,” Brett repeats, snorting a little. He could only imagine what other _blips_ he and Lori could possibly suffer. Filipo looks a little chastened by his own choice of wording; he grimaces apologetically at Brett, who shrugs roughly and looks away.

“I’m happy to come to the farmhouse for them,” Filipo offers. “If that’s where you and Lori are still planning on going, that is.”

“Yeah,” Brett agrees absently, his attention having snagged on Filipo’s office window, and the lazy afternoon foot traffic passing it by. He blinks, and forces himself to focus. “Yeah,” he repeats more strongly. “That’s still the plan.”

Filipo nods agreeably. He’d finished rounding his desk, and is now focused on his hands as he flips open a file folder that accordions out into several sections. As Brett watches, Filipo starts separating out the stack into individual parts, and filing them away. Brett watches, a little mesmerized.

“Speaking of Lori,” he finally prompts. Filipo pauses, and looks expectantly up at him. “Can I put more money into her college fund?” That’s not the word Filipo had used, he remembers. “Her trust, I mean,” he corrects. 

“It’s your money, Brett. You can do whatever you want with it,” Filipo informs him patiently. “That said, I don’t think it’s necessary. Lori will be able to attend whatever college or university she wants to based on its current level of funding. As,” he adds pointedly, “will you.”

Brett flinches, and drops his eyes to his hands. “Yeah,” he agrees noncommittally. “Sure.” He leans back in his chair, and covers his face with one hand, because even just the _thought_ of trying to shoulder a college career on top of everything else is just—exhausting. 

Luckily Filipo doesn’t push. He just murmurs, soft and comforting and without any expectations at all: “Your college trust will be there when you want it.” Brett nods, tiredly, and dredges up a small smile that he lifts his hand to reveal.

They’re technically done, and Filipo has other clients. Brett should leave. Instead he shifts a little in his chair, debating, and then—before he can talk himself out of it, for about the fiftieth time today _—_ he asks, “You were the one who handled mine and Lori’s adoption, right?”

Filipo pauses in his filing again, and looks up at Brett. Whatever he sees on Brett’s face, it apparently convinces him to sit. After a second he lowers himself into his office chair, and scoots it closer to his desk. 

“Yes,” he agrees, and sets aside the rest of the paperwork he’d been filing, and braces his elbows on his desk. “But just the paperwork. Satomi was the one who found you and initiated the process.”

“Found us how?” Brett demands, and then winces. He hadn’t meant for it to come out that sharply.

Filipo doesn’t seem to take his tone personally. He does grimace, and lean back a little in his chair. “You know better than most what can happen to werewolf packs, and other supernatural groups, in very short, and unexpected order,” he finally says, clearly choosing his words carefully. “The various pack alphas, and other supernatural leaders. They tend to keep an eye out for...survivors.”

Filipo’s trying to keep his sympathy—and his genuine, well-meaning pity—off his face, but he can’t keep it out of his scent. Brett ends up breathing through his mouth to try and avoid the worst of it. “So there are other... _survivors_ , like me and Lori, out there now?”

Filipo’s jaw works, a little. “I wish I could say there wasn’t, but...”

“But there are,” Brett concludes, more than a little bitterly. “There always will be.”

Filipo doesn’t reply, but then again: he doesn’t need to. “Can I ask,” he ventures after a few seconds have crawled past, “where your sudden interest in the topic is coming from?”

Brett doesn’t know how to answer that without sounding—childish. Small. Naive. But he’s also been spending too much time with Theo, apparently, because what falls out of his mouth is a drawled, “Well, it’s a big farmhouse.” 

Sidestepping the question. Answering without really answering. Brett doesn’t know if he’s amused or angry with himself; it’s like hearing Theo speak in his voice. He shifts so that he’s sitting with his feet flat on Filipo’s polished wood floors, his hands clasped together between his knees. He quirks Filipo an apologetic, knowing smile.

Filipo smiles back, but Brett can tell from the subtle drumming of his fingers that he’s chewing something over; debating whether to say it. Finally he must come to some kind of decision, because he punctuates it with a little tap of his closed fist against the arm of his chair and wonders aloud, tone carefully even, “And is this something you were thinking about looking into _soon?_ ”

Brett _blanches_ , Filipo’s careful delivery offset by Brett’s sudden clanging _anxiety_ at even the _thought_. “What? No. God, no,” he denies hurriedly, and the smile that crosses his face at Filipo’s visible—and apparently helpless—relief is wider, and more real. “Just—eventually. Maybe. Probably.” He hesitates, and then explains, “I just wanted—can I set up a trust or an account or whatever for, for _that?_ For that...possibility?”

Brett can _see_ Filipo resisting the urge to say _it’s your money, you can do whatever you want with it_ , again. Instead Filipo says, with the slightest hint of dry humor, “Brett, I mean this with as little exaggeration as possible—as long as you don’t develop a crippling gambling addiction or get involved in, you know, cryptocurrency speculation—” that last bit is as much a warning as an example: _don’t get involved in cryptocurrency speculation_ , “—you’ll be able to do whatever you want, really.”

“Oh,” Brett says meaninglessly; reflexively. He keeps goddamn _forgetting_. “Right.”

Filipo gives him another of those sympathetic smiles, and then assures him, “I’ll take care of it. For—the possibility.”

“Great,” Brett manages, and it may be another meaningless filler word, but he _means it_. “Thanks.”

When he gets back to his and Lori’s apartment, Lori isn’t there. Brett sets his bag down—he’d gone straight to Filipo’s after school—and then puts his nose in the air at the same that he prods, a little, at the shifting, slouching _awareness_ that seems to live at the base of his skull now, and then he heads for the stairwell. 

Lori’s curled up in an oversized hoodie on one of the lounge chairs on the rooftop patio. It technically isn’t open yet—they’ve got another week or so to go—which means Lori _definitely_ sweet-talked the front desk person into giving her the key. Brett smirks.

“Hey,” he murmurs as he walks up, and drops onto the seat next to hers. 

The chairs are long, meant for laying on—lounging on, more accurately, Brett supposes, hence the name—but she’s sitting with her legs curled up underneath herself, slumped sideways against the back. Brett just sits, feet on the concrete and hands in his pockets, and lifts a foot so that he can prod at one of her knees. She makes a face and shifts away from the pressure, though she doesn’t take her arms out of the inside of her hoodie, where she’d apparently pulled them back through the sleeves like some kind of armless, cotton-clad worm creature.

“Hi,” Lori greets, a bit too late to be a natural response, but Brett lets it go. 

The smile she gives him is soft enough, anyway, though Brett finds himself wondering if that’s—contentment, or something else. Her eyes aren’t red—but they wouldn’t be, not unless she’d been crying _recently_ —and her scent seems level, but the rooftop reeks of strong chemicals from the covered pool nearby and exhaust from the parking lot below; Brett’s not sure he trusts his nose, what with all the extra _stuff_ to sort through. 

Lori must realize what he’s doing, because she rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Brett,” she tells him, a little dryly; a little sibling-sharp. She resettles her weight on the chair, and tips her head. “How’d the meeting with Filipo go?”

“Good,” Brett answers. “Everything is signed and apparently self-executing, so.” He spreads his arms in a shrug.

Lori hums, and smiles softly at him as she lets her head tip back onto the chair’s cushions, and her eyes go hooded, and then slip shut. Brett watches her, something twisting in his chest.

“I asked him to set up a fund, or account, or whatever,” he tells her suddenly, like a confession. She blinks her eyes back open. “In case we do run across, you know. Any strays we think about pulling a McCall on.”

This time Lori _grins_ , and the scent of her joy manages to cut through even the chemicals and exhaust. “Good,” she says, voice practically blooming with warmth. “Good, that’s—that’s really good.” 

And she must really think so, because she doesn’t bring up the one stray she knows for a _fact_ Brett wants to _pull a McCall on_. Brett shoots her a grateful smile, and then—giving up on trying to pretend that he doesn’t want to—he stands up, and swings around until he can lay down next to her instead. She immediately makes room for him, and shifts around and down so that she’s lying on her side facing him, her arms poked back through her hoodie’s sleeves so that she can fold one elbow under her head. Brett mirrors her position.

She searches his face for a few seconds. “We’re going to be okay,” she tells him, low and whispered but no less a _declaration_ for all that. She quirks him a soft smile, and then a little wider of one when she sees whatever must be on his face.

“Yeah,” Brett manages to croak after a few seconds. 

He leans forward, and brings one hand up and around the back of her skull so that he can hold her head steady as he presses a soft kiss to her forehead. He relaxes back down.

“Yeah, we are,” he agrees, and smiles back at her.

_**Liam** _

Liam is sitting on his bed reading the journal that Theo had given him and resolutely pretending that he is _not_ taking notes, even as he’s literally in the process of taking notes, when the doorbell rings.

He pauses and glances up, sharpening his hearing as he hears his mom yell, “I’ve got it!,” and then the light sounds of her socked footsteps across the floor. _Who even rings doorbells anymore?_ Liam finds himself absently wondering, his eyes narrowing as he starts to unfold himself from the bed, suspicion and adrenaline starting to arc along his spine. But whoever-it-is lacks the sharp smell of ozone and bitterness that had always seemed to accompany Monroe and her hunters with all their guns and wolfsbane, or even _Argent_ with all his guns and wolfsbane. Still, Liam feels the shift start to slouch under his skin, his fingers curling and ready to become claws and his breathing starting to speed.

And then he blinks and jolts and nearly falls off his bed, suddenly off-balanced, because the person at the door greets, “Mrs. Geyer? My name is Desmond Berdiaeff. I’m the head coach for UCLA’s lacrosse team.”

Liam practically _bolts_ for the stairs.

He catches himself on the end of the railing at the end of the stairs and swings himself around, and only afterwards realizes that it maybe hadn’t been his best entrance when both his mom and Coach Berdiaeff cut off in the middle of his mom exclaiming, “ _Oh!_ ,” and starting to move back to allow Coach Bardiaeff in, to stare at him. 

“Um,” Liam manages, and can feel how deer-in-the-headlights wide his eyes are. “Um, hi. I heard…”

“Mr. Dunbar,” Coach Berdiaeff greets, grinning widely. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

Liam’s mom—after shooting him an exasperated look, which Liam returns with an apologetic, embarrassed grimace—gets them all sat at the dining room table, and disappears into the kitchen for a moment before coming back with several cans of sparkling water. She gives Coach Berdiaeff her own apologetic, embarrassed grimace.

“We weren’t exactly expecting company,” she explains, and offers him one of the cans.

“This is great,” he demurs. “In fact, it’s my preferred brand, and flavor. Good taste,” he compliments with a friendly smile, and cracks open his can and takes a sip without further ado. 

Liam’s mom laughs, the anxiety-tight line of her shoulders—and scent—easing some. It helps ease some of _Liam’s_ anxiety, but not nearly enough; he’s still practically vibrating on the edge of his seat as he stares intently at, and tries and fails not to _look_ like he’s staring intently at, Coach Berdiaeff. He jumps some and glances up as his mom squeezes his shoulder briefly as she sits, and then he looks back down, and blanches; Coach Berdiaeff is looking back.

“Sorry for just dropping in on you like this,” he says, “but I was in the neighborhood visiting another recruit—”

_Corey_ , Liam realizes, with a helpless, _elated_ grin.

“—and I thought I’d try my luck,” Coach Berdiaeff finishes.

They spend an hour or so talking. Coach Berdiaeff tells them about the team, his coaching approach, the current crop of recruits. But it isn’t until he segues smoothly into a discussion of how he ensures his players maintain a healthy team-school balance—his comments _more_ than half-directed at Liam’s mom—that Liam realizes what’s happening. His mom must realize it, too; her heartbeat kicks up, and her breath catches in her throat.

“Anyway,” Coach Berdiaeff says eventually. “I know your application came in late, but I’ve _seen you_ play—” Liam jolts and thinks wildly _when_ , thinks _where_ , but it gets immediately dog-piled by the anticipation and anxiety clanging in his head, “—and I won’t try and be clever, or jerk you around—I want you on my team.”

Liam’s mom must sense the _yes_ that’s about to explode out of Liam’s mouth, because she puts a restraining hand on his shoulder and speaks before he can, “As flattered as Liam certainly is, what exactly are you saying?”

Coach Berdiaeff tells them.

He also leaves fifteen minutes or so later, shaking Liam’s and his mom’s hands and then heading back out through the front door. Liam’s mom pushes the door closed and then leaves her hand resting against it, her expression still dazed. Liam would make fun of her for it, except that he can tell that his expression is just as dazed, if not more.

“Holy shit,” he concludes blankly.

It’s a sign of how stunned she is that she doesn’t chastise him for his language, and instead just agrees, “Holy _shit_ ,” just as blankly.

They stare at each other for a few seconds longer, and then almost simultaneously they both leap forward for the other, their forearms clasping as they both start to bounce around like little kids, unable to help it.

“Oh my god, _mom!_ ” Liam exclaims. “I can’t. I don’t. _Oh my god!_ ”

“Oh my god, Liam!” His mom replies, just as breathless and excited and eventually yanking him in to hug him tightly and swing him around. Liam laughs wildly and hugs her back, burying his face in her shoulder.

Eventually she releases him, and holds him at arm’s length with her hands clasped around his shoulders.

“We have to call David,” she announces, her eyes a little wild. “We have to _celebrate!_ ”

She whirls off to go find her phone, and Liam—after a second’s hesitation—pounds up the stairs to go find his. 

“Theo,” he says breathlessly, when Theo answers. “You’re never going to believe it.”

“I don’t know,” Theo drawls, background noise filtering through like he’s on his laptop, and typing. “I’m pretty hard to—”

“The UCLA head lacrosse coach just offered me a full-ride scholarship to come play for him!” Liam half-shouts over him, unable to wait any longer.

There’s a stunned silence on the line, and then Theo laughs, low and shocked but _light_. But _thrilled_. The sound of it tugs a little at Liam’s chest, and he feels the absolute bubbling _excitement_ between his ribs twist, some; become a little softer.

“That’s great, Liam,” Theo finally murmurs. “Congratulations.”

“We’re going to dinner,” he tells Theo. “You have to come.”

There’s a few seconds of silence. “Nah, Liam. This should be for you and your family, we’ll do something—”

“I wouldn’t even have _applied_ , if it wasn’t for you,” Liam interrupts. “You _literally_ filled out the application—which is probably like, _fraud_ , you know, or whatever, but.” He cuts his distracted rambling off. “You have to come.”

“Liam…” Theo tries.

“I’ll text you the address, see you in an hour!” Liam interjects, all in a rush, and then he hangs up before Theo can try and refuse again.

Originally his mom suggests one of the nicer restaurants in town, but they’re both still practically half-yelling at each in their excitement as they wait for Liam’s dad to get home, and eventually they both look at each other, grimacing. 

Liam purses his lips as he squints at his mom, and then he suggests, “Krueger’s?”

His mom blinks. “The hot dog place?”

“The hot dog place with the outdoor seating _and_ the triple-layer, homemade ice-cream sundaes,” Liam corrects, grinning. God, he doesn’t think he’s been to Krueger’s since he was a _kid_ , but.

His mom grins.

They’ve grabbed a table with Liam’s dad and are already part way through their meals when Theo shows up. Liam had just finished stuffing the last half of his latest hot dog in his mouth and so all he can do is stare, wide-eyed and with bulging chipmunk cheeks, as Theo comes to a stop next to their table. Theo looks down at him, eyebrows climbing and his lips between his teeth as he _clearly_ tries to bite down on a smile, and Liam rolls his eyes.

Luckily his mom jumps in. “Hey, Theo,” she greets warmly. Her and Liam’s dad have been drinking wine out of the little plastic cups provided by the restaurant, and the alcohol has softened her voice, the edges of her smile, the corners of her eyes. Liam can see Theo’s expression soften some in response. 

“Hi, Mrs. Geyer,” Theo replies quietly.

Liam’s mom gives an exaggerated groan, and folds her arms against the table as she drops her forehead against them in a deliberately overacted snit. “You’re never going to call me Jenna, are you?” She accuses Theo lightly.

Theo’s lips flicker. “No,” he admits.

Liam’s mom huffs, a little, and then waves him off. Theo grins down at her, a little helplessly, and then finishes greeting Liam’s dad, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“I’m going to,” he starts to say. Liam nods, his mouth still full, and watches after him as Theo weaves his way in between the various patrons towards the restaurant itself.

When he finally looks away, and back at his parents across from him—his mouth a little less full as he’d worked to actually chew and swallow the last of his hot dog—his mom is studying him, her chin propped up in one hand. Liam stiffens.

“So,” his mom wonders, drawing the single syllable out: _sooooo_. Liam grimaces, preemptively, and glances back towards the restaurant; it’s _entirely_ possible Theo can still hear them under the dull roar of conversation and screaming kids going on around them. 

“So, what?” Liam parrots back, reaching forward to grab his bottle of soda so he can take a drink, and try—ineffectually—to hide his flushing cheeks.

His mom rolls her eyes, and straightens up some. “You know, you haven’t said what Theo’s plans are for after graduation.”

She’s fishing. Her curiosity is more than benign. Still, Liam flinches, his shoulders hunching in as he drops his eyes to the table, and traces one finger through the condensation left from his drink. 

“He’s—it’s complicated,” Liam mutters. He sneaks a look upwards in time to see his mom exchange a glance with his dad, and frown.

“Complicated how?” She presses, and her curiosity is a little less benign, now; a little more concerned. Liam winces. God, he should have—done what Theo would have done. 

He should have lied. 

But it’s too late now. “It just. It just _is_ , okay,” Liam replies. “And you _can’t_ ask him about it.” His mom looks dubious, and mule-mouthed. It’s almost funny how Liam can recognize the expression on her face because he’s so used to feeling it on his _own_. “ _Mom_. You _can’t_. He really doesn’t like talking about it, and I—”

“ _Okay_ ,” his mom interrupts, her hands patting at the air. “Okay. I won’t, I promise. Jeez.” But she looks shrewdly at him, after she’s said it. “Just—he’s not in any trouble, right? He’s okay?”

Liam jerks to look up at her, and then turns his head just enough that he can see Theo through the windows into the restaurant, stood at the cashier’s with his little tray of food and a quirked smile on his face. The cashier is blushing. Liam wonders if Theo had even been _trying_ to be charming, or if it’s just—habit. He sighs, lowly.

“He’s Theo,” he finally tells his mom, glancing back at her. “It’s—even if he wasn’t, he’d never admit it.”

His mom’s mouth drops open, soft and surprised. Liam grimaces again, but Theo is coming back over; he forces himself to straighten up, and smile. 

By some miracle the sudden subdued atmosphere doesn’t last. That’s probably Theo’s doing, too, actually; he asks Liam about how, exactly, the whole full-ride-scholarship-to-play-lacrosse development went down, and they’re off to the races. By the time Liam—with several assists from his mom, who straight up just repeats what Liam says sometimes, only slowly and therefore more intelligibly—has finished recounting the story, the sun is setting. 

Still, they stick around even after it gets dark, circling through the restaurant again to this time come out the other end with plastic containers full of massive ice-cream sundaes. Liam’s mom and his dad—both still a little tipsy—break off to wander around the edge of the seating area—Liam can hear them whispering to each other, and his mom mumbling _oh thank god, I know you’re a doctor and I’m_ me _, but have you_ seen _UCLA’s tuition estimates for next year?_ into his dad’s shoulder—and he and Theo grab seats on two of the large rocks bordering the highway entrance. Theo seems pretty serene, carving off spoonfuls of his sundae to stick in his mouth as he watches the traffic go by, but there’s this specific, live-wire kind of energy running through Liam that he’s having trouble controlling.

“Look,” he finally blurts out. “I’m sorry if you. I’m guessing you _overheard_ , and. I didn’t mean for it to come up, but my mom, you know—”

“It’s fine, Liam,” Theo interrupts, thereby tacitly admitting that he _had_ overheard. Or that he’d been deliberately eavesdropping, either way. He doesn’t even bother to look at Liam, his eyes absently following a gaggle of younger students as they pass giggling by. 

Liam watches him for a few seconds, something about Theo’s casual dismissal and easygoing slouch eating at him. “You know, I couldn’t even have answered her, anyway,” he suddenly says, something in his voice gone a little hard. “I mean, _you_ haven’t even told _me_ what you plan to do.”

Theo goes a little stiff. He glances over. _I thought we’d agreed not to talk about this_ , that expression seems to say, even though Liam _hadn’t_. He’d just—let it drop, every time Theo had started to look a little hunted. He looks back at Theo now, his jaw clenching.

Finally Theo sighs, and spears his spoon into the soupy remains of his ice cream, and drops the container still held loosely between his hands into his lap. “Look, can we—not pretend you haven’t talked to Scott about this,” he bites out.

Liam stares at him, a little stung. “ _You’re_ pissed at _me_ now?” 

Theo jerks. “What? No!”

“‘Cause it kind of _seems_ like you’re pissed at me n—” Liam argues, his voice starting to rise.

“I’m not pissed at you!” Theo hisses, glancing around a little as he apparently checks to see whether anyone had started to get a little too interested in the scene Liam’s aware he’s on the cusp of causing. 

Liam doesn’t care. He clamps his mouth shut for a whole two seconds, and then he demands, “Why _haven’t_ you told me, then?”

The line of Theo’s mouth goes hard. “You haven’t asked.” But he flinches, a little, after he’s said it. Like he’s maybe—like he’s maybe _lying_. Liam stares, because he—can’t actually remember asking Theo. 

At least not _recently_. And that’d been on _purpose_. It’d been _deliberate_ , because: “You haven’t _wanted_ me to ask!” Liam whisper-yells back. “I was trying to be, I don’t know,” he waves his hands around a little in a wild, meaningless gesture, “ _sensitive_ to your issues, or whatever!”

“‘Sensitive to my issues, or whatever,’” Theo repeats, and then snorts. “Thanks.”

“Theo!” Liam snaps sharply. 

Theo bites off a noise, and looks away. “So why are you asking _now?_ ” He demands.

Liam stares at him, disbelief bursting outward from the cramped-up feeling at the core of his chest, poisonous and cloying. “Because graduation is in _two weeks_ , asshole, and I’d like to know if I’m ever going to see you again after!”

Theo pales, all the smarminess and sarcastic, defensive humor dropping away from his face. He stares in open-mouthed shock at Liam, who stares back, just as shocked at _himself_ , and it isn’t until Theo suddenly blinks several times and looks away that _Liam_ is able to snap out of it, either. 

“Sorry,” Liam mumbles eventually. “Sorry, you don’t—don’t have to answer that.”

He shoots Theo an apologetic smile. Theo winces, and tries, “Liam—”

“No,” Liam interrupts, a little hurriedly. “Seriously, don’t—don’t answer that.” This time the smile he tries to dredge up doesn’t get even halfway there before falling right off his face. Liam bites his lip, and then abruptly stands, making his way over to a nearby trash can to throw out the sad, melted remnants of his ice cream.

Theo follows after him, after a moment. He leans around Liam to drop his own container in the trash, and while he leans back, after, he doesn’t lean back far. It leaves him close enough that when he tilts a look at Liam from underneath his ducked brow, his forehead practically brushes Liam’s nose. 

“Scott said I could come back,” he suddenly announces, rough and a little quiet, like a confession. 

Liam searches his eyes. They’re still standing _very_ close. “Will you?” He wonders.

Theo flinches, and looks away again. He shrugs, almost like an apology. “I’m not—not Lydia, you know,” he jokes, though his voice cracks a little. 

Not a banshee. Not capable of predicting the future. Liam’s heart sinks, a little. He thinks about joking back, going for the easy deflection: _not in that outfit, you’re not_. But he can’t make himself do it, even if it might wipe that hangdog expression off Theo’s face.

Finally Liam just snorts, humorless and bitter. “Who is,” he finally replies, and then touches his tongue to his bottom lip. “I should get back to my parents. You, um. You don’t have to—”

_Stay_. He’d been about to say _you don’t have to stay_ , like an idiot completely incapable of keeping his foot out of his own mouth. 

He swallows, and tacks on, “Thanks for coming,” like some kind of verbal consolation prize.

“Liam,” Theo tries, but even Liam can tell he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“It’s fine,” Liam cuts him off. “It’s—you have to do whatever you have to do, right?” Theo winces, and looks away. “Anyway, I really do have to get back to my parents. See you later, Theo.”

Theo had maybe been gearing up to say more, but Liam will never know. He turns and starts walking away, and _forces_ himself not to look back, or turn around and give voice to the anxious, clawing apology trapped in his throat. Theo’s heartbeat is harder to ignore but not _impossible_ ; Liam focuses, instead, on finding his parents, tracking them down by sound rather than sight.

They’re at the edge of the little creek bordering the restaurant, sat side by side with Liam’s mom’s shoes in her hand and Liam’s dad’s pants rolled up to his calves so that they can both dip their feet in the water. 

“That water’s gross,” Liam tells them as he walks up.

Liam’s dad’s only response is to fake laugh, but it’s his mom who scoops her hand into the creek water and tosses it at him. Liam squawks, hopping backwards, but still manages to catch the majority of the water down his shirt. He gives it and then his mom—who’s leaning into his dad, cackling—a dry look, and then he slowly clambors down beside her, though he keeps his legs firmly crossed and away from the water.

Liam’s mom looks around. “Where’d Theo go?”

“He had to head back to Devenford,” Liam finds himself replying, and of _course_ he’s suddenly able to lie _now_. “You know how traffic gets.”

His mom and dad both hum in acknowledgment, because boy did they: they’d dealt with that stretch of State Highway 32 for years. They both stare at the water as they apparently contemplate just how _traffic could get_.

“Well,” Liam’s mom decides. “It was nice of him to come out, and I’m sure you’ll see him later.”

Liam doesn’t respond right away. 

“Yeah,” he finally replies. “I’m sure I will.”

_For a little while longer, anyway_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. 


	9. Chapter 9

_**Theo** _

Theo clocks the two hunters the second they step through the convenience store doors; the scent of ozone and bitterness—of guns, and wolfsbane—is pretty unmistakable.

He slides the plastic-cocooned phone charger he’d been about to take to the cashier back onto its hook, and turns and heads down the aisle leading _away_ from the two men now making their way deeper into the store. _Monroe’s people?_ He wonders, his hand already reaching to slide his phone out of his pocket, and bring it up to his ear as he fakes a phone call. The angle’s not great but Theo’s not willing to risk staying in the store longer; he snaps two quick photos of both men, and then turns to shoulder his way through the swinging doors out into the night-dark parking lot. 

But he’s brought to an immediate, ungainly halt seconds later, because the giant of a man who’d been absently smoking a cigarette in blatant violation of the sign posted next to the door steps into his path, and drives a hunting knife into Theo’s liver.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” The man asks as Theo chokes, and then he twists the knife a little deeper. Theo’s hands had snapped reflexively upward in a useless, too-late defense, and now Theo _clings_ to the man, because he can already feel his legs going weak.

He can already feel the wolfsbane coating the knife spreading through his system.

Behind him, the doors swing open again. “Hoo, boy,” someone says, and then there’s an arm wrapping around his shoulders, his back. Theo manages to turn his head, panting, to look over, and sees one of the hunters from the store give him a bright, winsome smile.

They’re starting to draw attention. The second hunter—faded blue baseball hat pulled low over his eyes—glances over at their gathering audience and raises one hand, his thumb and pinky extended, and then tips it repeatedly next to his mouth. “Too much to drink,” he explains wryly to the spectators. “You know how it is.”

He leans down, and hauls one of Theo’s arms over his shoulders; as he does it, the first hunter pulls the knife smoothly out of Theo’s gut. It happens quickly enough, and the angle—planned, the fuckers had _planned this_ —is such that there’s no way any of the crowd, either inside or outside the store, could have spotted the knife. Theo drops a hand reflexively to his side, _pressing_ against the wound. His shirt’s dark enough that it’s unlikely that anyone will see the blood; he grits his teeth.

“We’ll get him home,” the hat-wearing hunter is assuring the crowd, which starts to turn away, grumbling disapprovingly to themselves. “Let him sleep it off.” He waits until they’ve all gone back to their business, and then he puts his mouth next to Theo’s ear. “Let’s you and I and my friends here go some place where we can chat, hmm?”

Theo doesn’t have much of a choice. The knife-wielding hunter stabbing him in the liver hadn’t been an accident: with one of his body’s main organs responsible for fighting off toxins _itself_ punctured, and poisoned, he’s already weak, and barely able to stand. The hat-wearing hunter hauls him a little further up, and starts walking. His two friends follow closely behind.

There’s a park next to the convenience store. The hat-wearing hunter drags him, stumbling and staggering, over to a bench, and gets him set down. Theo collapses down onto it, panting, and glares through hooded eyes up at the three hunters, who fan out in front of the bench. The hat-wearing one grins at him for a moment, and then swings easily around to sit next to him, one arm rising to lay along the back of the bench so that his forearm is brushing the back of Theo’s neck.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Theo cheerfully. “But we needed to make sure you weren’t going to run off before we could talk to you.”

“You could have asked,” Theo forces himself to drawl out, though it loses some of its casual disinterest in the way that he has to huff it out, the air feeling like its _sawing_ its way in and out of his lungs.

The hat-wearing hunter shrugs. “Could have, I suppose,” he replies, agreeably enough. His arm across the back of Theo’s neck feels like a _brand_ ; _fever’s already started_ , Theo realizes.

It’s a quiet night, and the park is deserted. Even the foot and vehicle traffic passing by is slow, and infrequent. Theo takes stock of himself—already starting to shake with muscle weakness, and chills—and the hunters—big, brawny, with guns causing the lines of their jackets to bulge out and balanced, well-trained stances—and doesn’t like the math he ends up with. 

If he tries to fight to incapacitate the hunters and _escape_ , he’ll never make it; he’s too outnumbered, and the hunters too well-trained, and his body already too weak. If he tries to fight to _survive_ —if he fought, in other words, to _kill_ … 

“You with Monroe?” He grits out, forcing his eyes back open, and his head to the side so that he can look at the hat-wearing hunter.

The hunter’s brow furrows, and then clears. “Ah, the upstart bitch with the delusions of grandeur? Nah.” He grins, and pulls something from his pocket. It’s a bullet still set in its shell casing, which is engraved with a design of two crossed swords. “Me and my friends here,” he nods to the other two hunters still standing guard in front of the bench, “are from an older hunter clan up north.”

He flips the bullet around in his hands a few times, and then slips it back into his pocket. He grins at Theo again.

“Not that Monroe’s revolutionary zeal isn’t appealing, but me and mine,” he pauses, and tilts his head thoughtfully at Theo, clinical and assessing, “we understand that your kind are an inevitability, something that we all have to live with.” He brightens. “Like death, or taxes.”

He looks away again. Theo tries to concentrate on breathing, and _not_ on the slow leak of blood he can still feel between his fingers still pressed to his wounded side. His eyes flick to the other hunters, one to the next. The knife-wielding hunter catches him looking, and grins; a challenge. Theo looks away, jaw clenching. 

“You know,” the hat-wearing hunter finally offers, looking back at Theo. “We were going to heal you, after we had a chance to ask you about the young alpha in town,” Theo _jolts_ , helplessly, his eyes going wide and _panic_ shooting up his spine, but the hunter either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, “but that was before I saw _this_.”

The hunter reaches forward, and takes hold of Theo’s left wrist, pulling it up and holding it in the air between them. The leather bracelet with its strange runes gleams dully in the light from the nearest streetlamp, and Theo feels his breath catch. Beside him, the hunter hums thoughtfully and strokes his fingers over the bracelet, one fingertip catching and releasing, catching and releasing on the edge.

“I’ve never liked these, you know,” he tells Theo, like a confession. His eyes flick briefly to Theo’s before drawing back to the bracelet. “Way I see it, with all the other gifts you lot already have—the strength, the speed, the healing? Giving you another one, another chance? After you’ve already done something that merits hunter intervention…?” He suddenly drops Theo’s wrist, letting it fall painful and too-fast—Theo’s reflexes too sluggish to stop it—down onto the bench between them. “It just seems like a bridge too far.”

The hunter looks Theo dead in the eye, then, and while his grin is still in place, and his tone is still cheerful, his eyes are hard. 

“So we’re not going to heal you,” the hunter concludes. 

Then he leans over, and forward, just enough that he can lift up the blood-soaked edge of the fabric covering Theo’s wounded side. He flicks his eyes clinically over the damage beneath, and then leans back, and looks back at Theo. 

“But we will,” he promises, “end it faster, if you tell us what we want to know.”

Theo just smirks back, the best he can, but his _best_ isn’t very good; his vision is starting to tunnel, and he can feel the trembling in his fingers pressed to his side growing, and becoming jerkier. “How generous.”

The hunter shrugs. “We try. So? This new alpha, the survivor of the massacre of Satomi’s pack. Tell us about him.”

“Why the interest?” Theo shoots back. “I mean, you clearly came all this way…”

The hunter looks at him, and then smirks again; willing to play along, apparently. “Wellness check. Eighteen year-old alphas, you know how they can be.”

“Do I?” Theo returns, and then he shifts—ignoring the way that it sends _agony_ bolting out from his side and throughout his limbs—so that he can sprawl his legs a little wider, lean his head a little harder against the back of the bench and the hat-wearing hunter’s arm still resting atop it. And then he grins, just as insolently as his new posture, and tips his head sideways along the hunter’s forearm to meet his eyes.

“One problem with you being here doing a _wellness check_ ,” Theo points out, derision layered on _thick_ those last two words. “You’re out of your jurisdiction. The alpha’s under the Argents’—”

But the hunter just snorts a laugh, interrupting him. “The _Argents_ , huh? Except that that’s kind of a misnomer, isn’t it? _Argent_ , singular, would be more accurate.” He tips his head to smirk sideways at Theo, just as insolently as Theo had been smirking at him. “Not to mention that that guy’s gone kind of native, considering his involvement with the Beacon Hills pack, so. You know,” he smirks wider, “trust but verify.”

Theo doesn’t reply. The hunter searches his face for a few seconds longer, and then he sighs.

“Look,” he says. “I know you’re an omega,” Theo can feel his expression spasm, can’t stop it from happening, “so I know no one is coming for you.” 

The hunter’s eyes flick between Theo’s, his expression almost a little—pitying. Theo almost can’t swallow, his throat’s so tight. 

The hunter tips his chin towards the wound on Theo’s side. “You’re in for a long, slow—but inevitable—death with that. Now me,” he spread his arms wide, “I’ve got all night to sit here, but that just seems like a stupid way for you to go. So tell me about the alpha, and I’ll end it.”

_Last chance,_ Theo thinks to himself, his hand flexing against his wounded side and adrenaline starting to slip-slide slickly through his veins as he pictures—just for a second—surging up, striking out. He’s weak but he could still move fast enough if he needed—if his _life_ was on the line—to reach the two standing hunters before they could react, and turn around and reach the hat-wearing one before _he_ could react, if he tried. His fingertips ache with the pressure of his claws and his gums ache with the pressure of his fangs, but.

But _we’re from a hunter clan up north_ , the hat-wearing hunter had said. 

And so Theo—just closes his eyes, and starts to laugh, low and _painful_ but still bitterly amused.

“Something funny?” The hunter asks.

“Hilarious,” Theo tells him, and can feel blood speckle his lips as he does. “It’s just,” he shifts on the bench, adjusting his sprawled-out posture to try and relieve what he can of the clawing, _throbbing_ pain radiating out from his side. He looks back over at the hunter, and grins. He’s pretty sure his teeth must be stained black with his poisoned blood. “This is pretty on-brand for how I expected to go, right? It’s just,” he laughs again. “It’s just I thought I’d make it out of _Beacon County_ , first.”

The hunter’s eyes narrow, some of his arrogant amusement starting to drain away. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, some corner of his mind wondering, briefly, who’s going to be more pissed after his corpse is found: Liam, or Brett, “that you should settle in. You’re going to be sitting here for a while.”

_**Brett** _

Brett’s downtown at a local taco joint with his team when he feels it.

_It_ is the searing, stabbing _pain_ he suddenly experiences, like someone just took a spike and drove it directly into the base of his skull. The spot, he realizes with horror, as he collapses forward with both hands braced on the countertop of the cashier’s stand, where his awareness of _Lori_ and _Theo_ lives. 

_No, no, no_ , Brett thinks frantically, and shoves his way upright and off the counter, already reaching for his phone.

“Talbot!” Grossman yells after him as Brett stumbles towards the door, a confused protest, but Brett just ignores him. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket as he slams his way out of the restaurant.

“Lori!” He gasps when she answers. “Lori, where are you? Are you okay?”

“What?” Lori asks, clearly confused. Clearly _fine_. “I’m at the apartment, and I mean, besides being bored out of my skull at this last project for Mr.—” She cuts herself off, concern replacing the confusion. “Brett, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Brett confesses breathily, stood in the middle of the sidewalk now and turning around in a tight, agitated circle as he tries to focus past the _pain_ radiating out from the base of his skull to pinpoint—something. More information. A clue. _Anything_. “Something’s happened to Theo,” he tells her, absolutely _sure_ of it. “Something’s—check his apartment, please.”

“Brett—” Lori tries, not a protest but a worried—bordering on _scared_ —reflex.

“Lori, _please_ ,” Brett pleads, cutting her off. “Call me back if you find him. I have to. I _have to—_ ”

He doesn’t bother to finish. He hangs up. The pain at the base of his skull has retreated from a sharp, brutal _stab_ to a low, dull, constant _press_ of agony; whatever had happened to Theo originally, he isn’t healing. _Fuck_ , Brett thinks helplessly. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He stops spinning, and takes a step forward, back towards the direction of the school. That’s where he’d seen Theo last, earlier that day. Had something happened to him _there?_

But then he freezes, because as he completes the step, the awareness at the base of his skull recedes, just a little; gets duller, and more muted, like a radio moved further out of range. Whipping his head back over his shoulder, Brett looks the opposite direction of where he’d been heading—looks down the sidewalk, and further _downtown_ —and then he turns completely around, and _runs_.

The awareness—and therefore the _pain_ —gets stronger and stronger as he goes. Every now and then he has to pause and stagger to an unsteady stop, and spend a few seconds taking awkward half-steps in various directions, adjusting his heading as the awareness sharpens, or dulls, and he can start running again.

And all the while, the pain at the base of his skull grows.

But it isn’t just pain he can feel, after a while. Surprise, anger, anxiety. _Fear_. They all twine themselves around and through the core of the sense of Theo that lives tucked up at the base of his skull, just like it has for _months_ , as time goes on. They get stronger the closer Brett gets, crisper; more defined. 

It’s why, when he finally staggers to a stop—twenty or so feet away from a park in the middle of downtown occupied by four shadow-dark shapes clustered around a bench—he can _feel it_ when every other emotion bleeding from Theo melts away, replaced with only one.

With _resignation_.

He can hear it, when Theo starts to laugh.

“Something funny?” The hunter asks, and Theo shifts, and laughs again. 

“Hilarious,” Theo replies, and then explains: “It’s just, this is pretty on-brand for how I expected to go, right? It’s just,” he laughs again, and it’s a _horrible_ sound. “It’s just I thought I’d make it out of _Beacon County_ , first.”

Brett feels his chest _seize_ , even as the hunter next to Theo demands, low and wary and _threatening_ : “The hell does that mean?”

But all Theo says is, “It _means_ that you should settle in. You’re going to be sitting here for a while.”

There’s a stretch of stunned silence from the three men surrounding Theo. From the three _hunters_ surrounding Theo; even under the reek of cigarette smoke coming off of one of them, Brett can smell the sharp ozone sting of the guns they must be carrying, the bitterness of the wolfsbane that their bullets must contain. He feels a helpless spike of _terror_ as he catches it, his eyes widening and his breath hitching as _memory_ blooms insidious in his mind—Monroe with the scent of her sickly-sweet perfume that’d _just_ covered up the scent of the wolfsbane she’d used to poison him, the gunpowder that’d been covering her hands—and he takes a half-step back before he can stop himself. 

Maybe that’s why the hunters don’t notice him, yet. Maybe that’s why the one sitting next to Theo on the bench—a hat pulled low over his eyes—twists around to look at Theo, who’s slumped back against the bench, eyes closed and with his hand pressed to—to his _bleeding_ side, and says, “Seriously? He’s not even your _alpha_. You’re going to opt for an agonizing, _slow_ death instead of just telling us about him?”

Brett’s eyes widen. He can’t breathe. Even as all that is happening he can _just_ see the edge of Theo’s mouth start to curl in a sharp smirk, his face limned in shadow from the streetlights, made hard-lined and strange.

Brett doesn’t want to hear whatever Theo has to say. He doesn’t, he thinks, want to hear Theo say _yes_. He steps forward.

“If you’re that interested in learning about me,” he says, overloud to ensure his voice will carry to the three hunters, who all _jerk_ , “why don’t you skip the fumbling foreplay, and just ask me yourself.”

The two hunters who’d been standing whip around and scuttle backwards, their hands reaching for the guns hidden under their jackets. At the last moment they stop, though, their eyes flicking to the sidewalk bordering the park, the street. They leave their guns holstered.

The hat-wearing hunter—the leader?—who’d been sitting with Theo on the bench stays where he is, though he leans back. He makes an exaggerated show of tipping his hat up so that he can see Brett better, his eyebrows climbing.

“Well,” he finally says. “This is unexpected.”

He glances at Theo, and his brow furrows. He looks back at Brett.

“He’s not one of yours.” 

It’s a statement of fact, not a question. Brett feels his teeth grit. Theo’s eyes had slotted open when he’d heard Brett speak, and now he’s staring at Brett, his chest rising and falling unsteadily, his rasping, uneven breathing _sawing_ at Brett’s ears. But he doesn’t move, just stays sprawled back against the bench, one hand pressed to his bloody side.

He _can’t_ move, Brett realizes. Closer, he can see that the entire right side of Theo’s shirt is soaked with blood, as is the right side of his jeans. And not just _red_ blood. _Black_ blood. 

Theo meets his eyes, when Brett finally drags his own back up to Theo’s. His jaw is clenched tight, but it’s also trembling with pain, or muscle weakness, or both.

_He’s dying_ , Brett realizes. He’d _been_ dying, ever since Brett had felt that first initial, overwhelming stab of pain. Every second it’d taken Brett to find him. Every second that Brett is standing here _now_ , tension running through his limbs stemming not just from _anger_ , but from _fear_ , because of that scent of ozone, and wolfsbane. 

Because of these _hunters_ , all of them smirking, and so _relaxed_ , so _easy_ , like they weren’t in the process of murdering an eighteen year-old in the middle of a park. Like it didn’t matter to them at _all_ that Theo was slowly bleeding out while they watched, his pulse beating more and more irregularly as the wolfsbane—as the poison—ate its way through him. 

Just like it hadn’t mattered to Monroe that night in the forest. Just like it hadn’t mattered to Gerard, and the casual way he’d instructed Monroe on the best way to hunt Brett down, like Brett was just another animal; fair game. 

Just like it hadn’t mattered to the hunters who’d run Brett and Lori down. 

Brett feels his eyes flare red as his eyes flick from Theo to the hat-wearing hunter, and his mouth start to fill with fangs.

_Now_ the hat-wearing hunter climbs to his feet, careful and balanced. Preparing for a fight. But he doesn’t look _scared_. He _smirks_ , looking—looking _vindicated_.

“Mr. Talbot,” he greets easily. “It is Talbot, right? That’s what our intelligence indicated, anyway, that the _eighteen year-old,_ ” he pauses, deliberately, emphatically, “inheritor of Satomi’s alpha abilities is named Brett Talbot.”

The hunter is trying to make him angry. Trying to make him _attack_ , like Brett was some rabid dog; dangerous and out-of-control. Brett forces down the surging, slouching alpha shift rumbling restlessly under his skin and stands his ground.

He doesn’t drop the red away from his eyes, though.

“That’s me,” he returns, trying to keep his voice just as easy as the hunter’s. “And you’re trespassing.”

That seems to surprise the hunter. His face blanks some and he gives an awkward little laugh, and then he says, “Yes, well. Technically this is Argent jurisdiction, but—”

“Oh,” Brett interrupts. “So you got Chris Argent’s permission to come here and,” he has to cut himself briefly off, and swallow around his suddenly tight throat; he tries desperately not to look back at Theo, “ _interrogate_ an innocent supernatural.”

“Oh, well, _innocent_ ,” the hunter returns. “I think we _both_ know that’s not true.” He holds up his own left wrist and twists it around demonstratively; _Theo’s bracelet_ , Brett realizes. His teeth grit.

“That bracelet is tied to Chris Argent,” Brett explains, very tightly. “ _Technically_ ,” he says, deliberately echoing the hunter’s earlier word, “by coming here and attacking his ward, you’ve broken your own code.”

This time when the hunter laughs, it’s incredulous. “ _You_ are going to lecture _us_ on the code?”

Brett just smirks, though it takes effort. Though it feels _vicious,_ and barely more than a held-back snarl. “No,” Brett replies. “I’m just offering a friendly reminder—” the way he bites off the word _friendly_ isn’t friendly at all, “—that as the responsible hunter for this territory and the alpha of it, Chris Argent and I have the right—backed by your _code_ —to enforce each other’s laws, where necessary.”

The line of the hunter’s mouth goes tight. His eyes go hooded, and his nostrils flare; caught.

“Just trying to help,” the hunter tries, shrugging. “Omegas are always a risk left alone, you know? We happened to run into him on our way through town, and—”

“Attacked him,” Brett fills in. “Unprovoked.” 

The hunter doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise. “Better safe than sorry. Most omegas _themselves_ are trespassers, after all. We didn’t know,” he says, more softly; more full of speculation, and insinuation, “that you two were so _close_.”

Brett feels his teeth grit, and a spike of panic jolt up his spine that he just barely manages to keep off his face. “The only trespassers here are _you_ , and your friends. So you are going to leave my territory,” Brett tells him, low and deliberate and deadly. “You are going to leave it, and _never come back_ , because if you do…” He pauses, and smiles, slow and syrupy. “Well, you know as well as I do that in that case, your code favors _me_.”

He’d already locked eyes with the hat-wearing hunter. He continues to watch him, red-eyed and steady, until the hunter—who Brett could practically _see_ examining his options, and coming up empty—finally bites off a frustrated noise, and looks away. He jerks his chin at the two hunters who’d been standing, poised, off to the side. They start to back away from both Brett stood on the other end of the park, and Theo still sprawled back on the bench.

“Wait,” Brett orders, his eyes flicking to Theo. “The weapon you used to poison him. Leave it.”

The largest of the three hunters—and the one who reeks of cigarette smoke—hesitates, and darts a look at the hat-wearing hunter. But after a second—and another quick glance at Brett—the hat-wearing hunter nods, jerkily. The big hunter’s jaw clenches, but he brushes the side of his jacket back, and pulls a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. He tosses it forward, onto the grass between the group of hunters and Brett, and in front of Theo.

But Brett’s not satisfied. “Sheath, too,” he presses. Chances are he’d need it; the knife was unlikely to have the amount of wolfsbane residue necessary to heal Theo.

The big hunter grits his teeth even harder, but yanks the sheath off his belt, and tosses it forward, too. 

“Satisfied?” The hat-wearing hunter sneers.

“Well, you’re still in my territory,” Brett answers smoothly, and this time he _does_ let the shift rise, turning his teeth and fingertips and _presence_ sharp, “so, _no_.”

It’s a crystal-clear message. The hunters manage to keep their sudden spiking anxiety off their faces, but it comes through loud and clear in their scents; they turn, and start hurrying away. Brett waits until they disappear from sight, and then he lunges for the knife and sheath lying innocuously in the grass, before lunging just as quickly for Theo still collapsed on the bench.

“Jesus christ,” he mumbles, already feeling sick. “Jesus—”

He doesn’t even bother to look at Theo, just reaches for his blood-soaked shirt to pull it up and away from the stab wound he can now see underneath it. He hisses once he does—and Theo hisses above him, apparently reacting to the pull of his sopping shirt away from the wound—and stares down at the mass of black lines, and snaking threads of gray, surrounding it.

Brett rears back. “Matches, I need—” He says frantically. _Now_ he glares at Theo. “ _Matches_ , Theo. You’re like the mirror universe version of a boy scout, you _have_ to have—”

Theo’s teeth grit, but either he can’t move to help or he’s that contrary of a bastard, because he just grinds out, “Wallet. Left front pocket.”

Brett gets his hands on Theo’s left thigh and hip, digging at his pocket. The angle’s awkward, though, and he can’t help jostling Theo as he pulls Theo’s wallet free; Theo bites off a yell as Brett shifts him, his head arching back over the back of the bench, and his breath _streaming_ harshly in and out of his nose.

Brett ignores it—has to ignore it—and focuses on getting Theo’s wallet flipped open, and the little packet of matches pulled out of the inside.

He’d been right about the knife; when he touches a lit match to the blade, it lights up blue-white but flames out almost immediately, leaving barely any residue behind. But as suspected—Brett having tossed the knife carelessly to the side—the sheath is specially made, and there’s a reservoir inside that enables the knife to be coated with wolfsbane when sheathed. Brett shifts his claws, and peels back the leather and metal of the sheath until he can reach the reservoir, and— _very_ carefully—puncture it.

But the liquid won’t burn to ash. Brett grits his teeth, and looks up at Theo. “This is going to suck,” he warns him, and before Theo can respond, Brett lights a match with one hand and holds the punctured reservoir in the other, and then _dumps_ the concentrated wolfsbane over the wound just as he touches the match to the streaming liquid.

Theo _howls_.

Brett both hears _and_ feels it, his ears ringing with the sound and the base of his skull _exploding_ with pain. But Theo cuts his cry off almost instantly, and the agony at the back of Brett’s head starts to recede almost immediately, and so Brett just spends a few seconds hunched over Theo with his eyes closed, just trying to breathe.

Finally he collapses back on his heels so that he’s essentially kneeling in front of Theo, and goes to drop his face in his hands as he mumbles, thick and sick-sounding, “ _Fuck_.” But halfway there he remembers that his hands are covered in Theo’s poisoned _blood_ , and he stops, and drops them into his lap instead. He looks back up at Theo, who shifts upwards so that he’s more sitting than sprawled out, and looks back.

Looks _hesitantly_ back.

“What,” Brett demands, low and too-evenly, “the fuck _happened?_ ”

Theo flinches, and looks away. His right hand drops back to his side, pressing against the wound that—Brett’s eyes following the movement—is still sluggishly closing. “Isn’t it obvious?” He finally replies. “Those three showed up looking for you, and found me instead, and—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!” Brett snarls, and Theo cuts off with a startled jerk, his eyes going wide on Brett’s face. Brett _stares_ at him, disbelieving. “You can’t be,” he says. “You can’t _honestly_ be trying to act like—”

Theo doesn’t say anything, but his jaw clenches _hard_. Brett feels all the tangled up emotions that he’d sensed _Theo_ feeling—that’d taken up root in his _own_ chest as he’d desperately searched for him, and that had grown, choking and poisonous as he’d talked to the hunters—rush up out of his throat.

“You were going to let them kill you!” He accuses, and he’s _yelling_ it. 

Theo flinches, full-body and _hard_ , and glances around. “Brett,” he hisses. “We are in _public_ , you can’t. _We_ can’t—” 

_Do this here_. That’s what Theo’s trying to warn him about. Brett stiffens, and glances around, and Theo’s _right_ ; either because of Theo’s earlier pained howl, or Brett yelling, or just the strange sight of them—Brett kneeling in front of Theo still sat painfully hunched over on the bench—they’re starting to draw a crowd. Gritting his teeth, Brett pushes himself to his feet, and leans over, as casually as he can, to retrieve the knife and ruined sheath. He takes off his jacket and wraps both inside it, and then gets his other hand on Theo’s arm—not _offering_ him a hand, but just grabbing on—and yanks him to his feet.

“C’mon, let’s go,” he orders, and doesn’t wait for Theo to comply before starting to drag him away, back towards the restaurant a few streets away where Brett had left his car.

Theo tries exactly _once_ to yank his arm free, and then gives up. “Go _where?_ ” He demands, his voice still shaky, and weak.

“Beacon Hills,” Brett snarls back, and he can feel it when Theo stiffens with surprise, and tries to stop walking. Brett doesn’t let him, just yanks him—engaging his alpha strength—harder forward. 

“What, why?” Theo argues, practically hissing it out as he stumbles forward. “Scott and Argent aren’t even _there_ , they—”

“I’m not taking you to see _Scott_ or _Argent_ ,” Brett corrects savagely. “I’m taking you to see _Deaton_.”

And maybe it’s the _terror_ that Brett can hear saturating his own voice that does it, but Theo doesn’t keep arguing. Instead he swallows, loud enough and dry enough that Brett can hear his throat click, and keeps staggering along after Brett.

They don’t talk, for the rest of the walk. Brett’s too furious, and Theo’s too— _whatever_ , and they’re still in the middle of downtown. But the second they get to Brett’s car, and Brett gets Theo shoved—literally—inside, Brett can’t wait any longer. 

He slams his door shut, and gets the car started, and snarls, even as he’s in the middle of pulling out of his parking spot, “You are going to _explain_.”

But Theo’s apparently recovered enough to default back to _asshole_. “Explain _what?_ ” He snaps back. “You _saw_ what happened. You’re not this—”

“You were just _sitting there!_ ” Brett interrupts, and this time he doesn’t give a shit that he’s yelling. “You were just. You weren’t even _trying_ to fight back!”

But instead of shouting back, or even arguing at all, Theo just gives a quiet, humorless snort and replies, “That’s because there wasn’t going to _be_ any ‘fighting back.’ The only way I could have gotten out of there was if I’d killed them.”

He sounds so dismissive of the possibility, like it’s _obvious_ how stupid that would have been of him. Brett—now jerking his car into the merge lane to head onto State Highway 32–whips his head around to stare at him in disbelief.

“ _So?_ ” He shrills. “They were trying to kill _you!_ ”

Now Theo is looking at _him_ in disbelief. “Are you—? You must be. _Jesus,_ Brett,” he finally snaps, Brett’s name a frustrated complaint. “You think no one knew they were here? You think their _hunter clan_ didn’t know?” He bites off another of those harsh sounds, and looks away again, out his window. “If I’d killed them, it would have been an omega killing hunters in _your_ territory. It would have been a _war_.”

Brett can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you. Are you seriously expecting me to be _grateful_ that you nearly _sacrificed yourself_ for me?”

Theo turns to look at him again, and there’s—there’s fucking _outrage_ all over his face. “I’m _expecting_ you,” he counters, practically _shouting_ it, “to act like an _alpha!_ ”

There’s a few ringing seconds of silence. Brett can barely think past the ringing in his _ears_ ; his clamorous, cacophonous thoughts. Theo glares at him for a few seconds longer, and then his expression twists and he looks away again. 

“It would have been a _war_ , Brett,” he repeats, more calmly. “And not just with you. Scott and the others would have gotten dragged into it, too, thanks to your new alliance.”

_Which I convinced you to pursue_ , Theo doesn’t say, but it hangs there in the air between them.

Brett’s still staring at Theo, his head twisted sideways and his eyes, therefore, not focused on the road. It’s really only his alpha reflexes that let him react fast enough to some asshole suddenly cutting him off to avoid a crash, and he curses fluently and forces himself to turn back to the road as he lays on his horn, and then gets them jerked into the next lane, and roaring forward. 

He pulls out his phone.

“What are you,” Theo starts to ask, but Brett cuts him off.

“I can’t talk to you right now,” Brett tells him tightly, and all but ignores him as he unlocks his phone. He has half a dozen missed calls from Lori; he shoots off a quick, _everyone’s alive, call soon_ , to her, and then opens up his contacts, and starts scrolling through them. “I’m calling Scott,” he announces. “And then,” he continues, and _now_ he looks over at Theo, “I’m calling Liam.”

Theo chokes out a helpless, startled noise. Brett ignores it, and brings his phone to his ear as it starts to ring, and drives. 

_**Liam** _

“Theo!” Liam shouts as he crashes through the animal clinic door, and hard enough that the hinges warp; Deaton’s going to kill him. Liam shoves that aside, looking frantically around for Theo.

But he isn’t in the waiting area, which—makes sense. Brett is, though, and he intercepts Liam when Liam starts to rush for the hallway back into the main exam room. “Hey!” He says, dragging Liam to a stop and then forcing him back a step. “Hey, hey, hey,” he chants quickly, his hands _firm_ on Liam’s shoulders. “He’s fine, okay? He’s fine. Deaton’s treating him now.”

That last part is a warning of sorts; a chastisement. An instruction for Liam to stop, and think, and not interrupt Theo getting the treatment he needs. Liam pushes helplessly, just a little, against Brett’s restraining hands, and then forces himself to take a step back, and then another, away. Brett lets him go.

Liam can’t stand still. He keeps taking these little steps forward, back towards the exam room—though never close enough to make Brett think he’s trying to get past him—and then back towards the clinic door, and then to the side, before starting the circuit again. He keeps shaking his hands jerkily, in these uneven bursts, with his fingers clenching and unclenching, over and over again. He can barely _breathe_ around the panic still sitting high up under his throat, the tight ball of it that’s been sitting there since Brett had called and said, _something happened to Theo_.

“I don’t. I don’t _understand_ ,” Liam finally confesses. “What were those hunters even _doing_ there? I thought the whole point of you staying in Devenford was so that you’d be under Argent’s _protection_ , or whatever, it—”

“They don’t trust Argent,” Brett interrupts quietly. Liam jerks to an unsteady stop and stares at him, wide-eyed. Brett grimaces. “They said something about him _going native_. I think they meant how close he is to Scott, and you, and—” He cuts himself off. “Anyway, I guess they—wanted to make sure I really hadn’t turned _rabid_ , or whatever.”

He sounds _beyond_ bitter. Liam winces sympathetically. But.

“But why attack _Theo?_ ” Liam bursts out. “You said he hadn’t done anything, that they just—just _stabbed_ him out of fucking nowhere, I don’t understand _why—_ ”

“Because they’re _hunters_ , Liam,” Brett cuts him off again, and this time he takes a half-step sideways and drops into the nearest chair. He covers his face with his hands—which _reek_ of too-strong, chemical soap; even Liam can tell from where he’s standing—and says, muffled, “It’s what they do.”

_It’s not what_ Argent _does_ , Liam thinks petulantly, but—doesn’t say. He twists his head around to look longingly towards the exam room, and then he bites his lip—and hard enough, accidentally, that he punctures it, before it immediately heals—and circles around until he can collapse into the seat next to Brett.

“They must have been pretty good, I guess,” Liam mutters, thinking it through. “To get the drop on Theo like that, I mean.”

But instead of agreeing, or even making a smart comment, Brett just _barks_ a laugh. It’s an utterly humorless sound. 

It’s _terrible_.

Liam stares. “What,” he starts, anxiety creeping up his throat. “Brett, what does _that_ —”

But then he cuts _himself_ off, because the door to the main exam room creaks open, and Deaton steps into the hallway, a cloth in his hands that he’s scrubbing over them as he walks serenely towards them. He finishes drying his hands, apparently, as he reaches the swinging wooden— _mountain ash_ , Liam immediately corrects, flicking it a long look—gate, and drapes the cloth over the railing as both Brett and Liam jump to their feet.

“Mr. Raeken will be fine,” he announces. 

Liam feels his breath leave his chest in an _explosive_ rush, the relief bursting out from the core of himself almost as painful as the panic had been. 

But Deaton just turns to Brett, and adds, “It’s a good thing you brought him here. The coating used on the hunter’s knife contained a second toxin. Mistletoe. It would have done him serious damage if left untreated, but I’ve administered the antitoxin, and his system will be able to clear it over the next few hours.”

Liam’s stuck reeling between his relief and _horror_ , after that, imagining what would have happened if Brett hadn’t dragged— _literally_ dragged, apparently, or so Brett had pretty heavily insinuated—Theo to Deaton to get fully checked out. He folds over, a little, hands on his knees as he tries to breathe through the conflicting whirlwind of emotions ravaging his chest.

Deaton does him the immense favor of ignoring him. “He’ll need to rest to finish recovering. He’s welcome to stay here, of course, but you’re also free to take him elsewhere if—”

But he cuts off, and glances back, because Theo—who’d hauled himself out of the exam room, apparently, and is leaning heavily against the wall of the hallway out into the main room—says, “ _Home_. I’m going _home_.”

That actually sounds like a pretty decent plan to Liam, and he’s opening his mouth to say so when Brett suddenly snarls, “You must be fucking _joking_.”

Liam startles, and twists to look at Brett, surprised. _What is going on_ , he wonders, as Brett and Theo glare at each other, and then his head whips back around as Theo speaks.

“I’m not staying here, and I don’t know where the hell else you’re thinking of dragging me, but I’m going _home_. One of you can either give me a ride, or call me a fucking Uber, but I’m _going_ ,” he grinds out, very calmly. 

Too calmly.

Deaton just raises his eyebrows, and turns to retreat back deeper into the clinic as he says, “I’ll leave you boys to work this out among you.”

None of them speak. Brett and Theo because they’re apparently too busy with whatever war of wills they’re in the middle of fighting, and Liam because he’s too goddamn confused. But the click of the exam room door shutting after Deaton snaps him out of it, and he frowns first at Brett, and then at Theo.

“What’s going on?” He demands, and then, higher-pitched and a little more panicked as his mind immediately starts trying to fill in the blanks _itself_ , and everything he comes up with is _horrifying_ : “ _One of you_ needs to tell me _what the hell is going—_ ”

“You want to tell him,” Brett asks Theo, sharp and biting, “or should I?”

Theo’s jaw just clenches. “Nothing to tell,” he replies shortly.

But his heart skips. But he’s _lying_.

“Theo,” Liam breathes, eyes wide on Theo’s face, and Theo jerks to look at him, and _flinches_.

“Uber it is,” he declares harshly, and starts trying to shove past both Liam, and Brett.

But Brett doesn’t let him. He steps into Theo’s path, and clasps his hand around one of Theo’s biceps, and _hauls_ him to a stop as he snarls, red-eyed and fang-mouthed and with enough alpha _oomph_ flaring out from the sense of him that even _Liam_ cowers back, a little. 

“ _Hey_ ,” he orders, staring Theo down, and Theo—stiffens, and turns his head to the side, away from Brett’s fanged mouth hovering just inches from his now-bared neck.

Something’s happening here that Liam doesn’t have the context for. Something _bad_. And something, apparently, that Theo doesn’t want him to know about. Liam feels his anxiety come roaring back, clawing its way up his spine and ribcage and up the back of his neck, wrapping around his throat. 

“Brett,” he blurts out, because he’d already tried to ask Theo. “Brett, what’s going on?”

Brett doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s directed at Theo. “You want to go home?” He asks him, tone low and biting and _hard_. “Fine, I’ll take you home. And on the way,” he adds, nodding towards Liam, “you can explain to _him_ exactly what happened tonight.”

Theo jerks, and looks wide-eyed up at him. “Brett,” he tries, but Brett just suddenly releases him, and then gestures the same arm out wide, towards the exit: an invitation, and one that Liam can tell Theo suddenly doesn’t want to take. He darts a look at Liam and _swallows_ , his throat bobbing.

And then he bites off a harsh noise, and goes.

Brett doesn’t immediately move to follow. Instead he looks at Liam and demands, “Well?” 

His eyes are still red. He’s still bleeding off enough alpha authority that Liam’s fangs are itching at his gums even as his head keeps wanting to bow. Liam _jolts_ , and then scuttles after Theo, catching the door just after Theo blows through it—he’d been right about warping the hinges, Deaton really _is_ going to kill him—and following on Theo’s heels as Theo storms his way towards Brett’s car.

It is, without exaggeration, the most uncomfortable two minutes of Liam’s life as Brett gets them pulled out of the animal clinic’s parking lot, and back out onto the road.

Theo had climbed into the back seat and then slammed the door without waiting for Liam, so Liam—after a moment’s indecision—had climbed carefully into the front seat instead, and slowly—still wondering what the _hell_ could possibly be going on—buckled his seatbelt. Brett had thrown himself into the driver’s seat shortly after, and then he’d gotten the car started without a word, and peeled out of the lot fast enough and unexpectedly enough that Liam had been thrown back against the seat.

He’d tried to look up at Theo in the rearview for a clue, but Theo had been staring resolutely out the window, his jaw hard.

“Look—” Liam says, after he’s literally counted off two minutes in his head; after he’s _tried_ , desperately, to be patient, and to give Theo and Brett a chance to start talking. 

“Look—” He says, after he’s had to give up, and crack a window, because the overpowering _cloud_ of Theo’s and Brett’s roiling, hot scents filling up the car starts to give him a headache, starts to make his stomach cramp. 

“Look—” He says, humiliatingly high-pitched because he’s officially fucking _freaked-out_ , now, and he can’t stop it from showing, “—I really, _really_ need one of you to tell me what the _hell_ is going on.”

But no one speaks. Brett just flicks his eyes to the rearview, clearly watching Theo and clearly waiting for Theo to say something, but Theo doesn’t. Instead he just grits his teeth harder, and looks more fixedly out the window, and doesn’t say a word.

“Theo,” Brett warns, his fingers _creaking_ around the leather of his steering wheel as they wrap tighter, and tighter around it. 

“What exactly is the point of this, Brett?” Theo finally snaps, harsh and biting. “It’s not going to change anything, and it’ll just—”

“Just _what?_ ” Liam interrupts, turning around in his seat to glare at Theo directly. “Just _what_ , Theo?”

Theo’s eyes had flicked to his, his expression going stricken. _He really doesn’t want to tell me whatever it is_ , Liam realizes, and Liam doesn’t know why that feels like such a betrayal. He stares at Theo, who stares back at him.

“Liam, it doesn’t matter,” Theo finally tries, leaning forward now as he holds Liam’s eyes and so very _earnestly_ assures him, “I’m fine now, and the hunters are gone, and it _doesn’t matter!_ ”

But.

“ _What_ doesn’t matter?” Liam shouts, his voice cracking. He jerks his eyes back and forth between Theo in the backseat, and Brett beside him. “Someone needs to fucking _tell me_ whatdoesn’t—!”

“Theo would have died tonight if I hadn’t found him when I did!” Brett finally interjects, yelling it almost as loud to be heard over Liam. Liam’s jaw shuts with a click. Brett glances over at him, and his expression spasms with—with _something_ , and then he turns back to the road and continues, more quietly, “But he didn’t _have_ to—”

“Brett, _please_ —” Theo cuts in, and he’s _begging_ ; Liam doesn’t think he’s ever heard Theo beg.

“—except that he made a _choice_ ,” Brett concludes, ignoring Theo’s plea altogether. His eyes flick over to the rearview, and they’re hard. His eyes flick to Liam’s, and they soften; apologetic.

The silence that falls in the cab afterwards is _deafening_. Liam initially stares in horror at Brett, and then—almost by reflex—his head turns to look at Theo instead. Theo is already looking back, and his expression is _raw_. 

It’s as good as a confession.

“Oh my god,” is all Liam can manage, blank with shock.

Theo practically _lunges_ forward, bringing himself closer up between the front and back seats. Liam finds himself lunging _backwards_ , his eyes still locked on Theo’s face. Theo’s expression _twists_.

“Liam,” he hurries to try and explain, low and desperate. “It’s not that simple, okay? It’s _not that simple_.”

“But it’s true,” Liam interprets, his voice still that horrifying _blank_. “But it’s—you were going to die. You were going to—to _let_ yourself die.”

“ _It’s not that simple!_ ” Theo yells, and then he bites off a frustrated, pained sound when Liam just presses himself further back against the dashboard; further away from Theo. He looks away, and then looks back. “Liam, _listen_ to me,” he pleads. “The hunters, okay, they were _good_. They were _really good_. They’d already stabbed and poisoned me by the time I’d even realized I was in trouble, okay?”

“So?” Liam presses. 

He’s absently aware that Brett is still in the car with them—he can _see Brett_ in the corner of his vision, still driving, and still occasionally giving Liam these horrible, pinched-mouth looks—but he can’t focus on him; can only focus on Theo, who leans back forward, his hands up and his gestures just as much of a plea as his voice.

“So I was _too weak_ , by the time I could do anything to try and get away, okay? I only had one option, and that would have been—” He trails off, and doesn’t finish right away.

It’s _Brett_ who fills in neutrally; _too_ neutrally: “Killing them.” Liam jerks, and looks over at him, wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” Theo agrees reluctantly, his eyelashes briefly fluttering as he does. “I would have had to kill them.”

Theo’s looking at him like that should mean something to Liam, but Liam doesn’t know what he’s trying to communicate. “So?” He croaks. “They were trying to kill _you_ , that’s self—” 

_Defense_. He was going to say _self-defense_ , but Theo is already shaking his head roughly and biting off another of those noises.“ _No_ ,” he insists harshly. “It _wouldn’t have been that simple._ ” He suddenly turns, and glares at Brett. “ _You_ fucking—you _know_. Don’t pretend like you—!”

“Stop it!” Liam finally yells. “Just—just fucking _stop_ talking _around_ me like I’m some kind of kid, or idiot!”

Both Theo and Brett freeze. They exchange a guilty, reflexive glance in the rearview before apparently remembering they’re furious with each other, and immediately wrenching their eyes elsewhere. Brett glares back out at the road. 

Theo looks back at Liam.

“If I’d killed them,” he finally says, his voice that low sort of confessional, again, “it would have been a war.” He must see the confusion on Liam’s face because he grimaces, and explains, “The hunters weren’t just some random upstarts, like Monroe. They were from a powerful hunting clan up north—”

“Montana,” Liam remembers, helplessly; can’t stop himself from blurting out. Theo’s lips flicker, apparently just as helplessly.

“Montana,” he agrees, though whether or not he’s granting the point or the hunters actually _were_ from Montana, Liam has no idea. He winces, feeling instantly like the kid he’d just yelled at Theo not to treat him like. But Theo just keeps talking. “There are—rules,” he explains. “Customs. One of which holds that if an _omega_ ,” he puts a deliberate amount of emphasis on the word, the bite of it causing Liam to flinch and Brett’s jaw to clench, “kills a hunter, that crime is held to be the responsibility of the alpha in whose territory the killing took place.”

_Brett_ , Liam realizes with a jolt. He jerks to look over at him, and sees Brett’s expression twisting with guilt, and regret. 

“But that—that’s bullshit,” Liam protests. “What if the omega wasn’t doing anything. What if the hunters just _attacked him—_ ”

Theo’s lips just flicker in a sad, humorless smile. “Yeah? How you planning on proving it?”

Liam stares at him. “You—you would have _told them_. The—the other hunters.”

Theo stares at him, and this time the smile that cracks his face is disbelieving, and sharp in all the wrong ways. “Me. _Me_. I would have told them.” He leans back, and spreads his arms wide. “Theo Raeken, who barely seems to exist on paper, and for those _in the know—_ ” he puts a particularly derisive emphasis on those last words, “—the errand boy for the Dread Doctors.” He shakes his head, and looks at Liam incredulously. “You think that would have _helped?_ You think they would have _believed me?_ ” 

“It would have been the _truth_ ,” Liam insists, though he feels like an idiot even as he does so; like he’s missing something obvious that Theo seemed to have effortlessly grasped.

“It wouldn’t have _mattered_ ,” Theo shoots back, and shakes his head again. He slumps back against the seat, his eyes on the road flying by out his window. “It still would have been a war.”

And the thing is, the way Theo had explained it, it almost sounds _reasonable_. It almost sounds _obvious_. But then Liam remembers: _Theo would have died tonight, but he didn’t_ have _to, except that he made a choice_.

His anger comes _roaring_ back.

“And so. And so you—you fucking,” he sputters, “you fucking thought it was acceptable to _sacrifice_ yourself? _That_ was your answer?!” By the time he finishes, he’s _yelling_ ; both Brett and Theo wince, and Liam _doesn’t care_.

“Liam,” Theo tries, his eyes wide and fixing on Liam’s face, but what he _means_ is: _yes_.

_Yes_ , he’d considered sacrificing himself an acceptable answer.

“Oh my god,” is all Liam can say again, back to being blank. He starts to turn back around in his seat, except that Theo lunges forward again, clearly trying to close the gap between them and—and _whatever_ , spill more perfectly-reasoned explanation into Liam’s ear.

“ _No!_ ” Liam snarls at him, whipping back around and glaring at him. That he’s doing it through a fanged mouth and flared eyes he doesn’t realize until _after_ , but he doesn’t care. “ _No_. No, you—you just. No.”

He turns and practically _collapses_ back into his seat, heedless of whether Theo is still staring open-mouthed and sad-eyed and desperately at him. He looks down at his hands to see that they’re clenched, and filling with blood. He grimaces, and pulls his claws free of his palms with a sickening wet _snick_. 

He jumps when Brett suddenly leans forward, and sideways in front of him, to pull a cloth out of the glove compartment. He drops it in Liam’s lap and leans back without a word, but his eyes—when Liam turns his head to look at him—are hooded, and sad. 

He looks, honestly, about how Liam feels.

Liam picks up the cloth, and cleans off his hands. Behind him, no matter _how much_ he wants to pretend he can’t, Liam can hear Theo slump back against the seats with a heavy, defeated exhale. 

And Liam—Liam just swallows his own, and closes his eyes, and tries not to think about anything, at all.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Theo** _

Liam and Brett follow him up to his apartment, which is probably the _least_ surprising part of this whole night, but still manages to make Theo’s teeth grit. He slams through his own door and doesn’t bother to hold it, letting it start to swing shut right in front of Liam following so closely after him that he’s practically tripping himself _and_ Theo on Theo’s heels. Brett follows more sedately after, but Theo’s not stupid enough to mistake that for calm.

If anything, he realizes—catching Brett’s eyes accidentally over the top of Liam’s head—it’s the opposite.

He rips his gaze away, and starts to storm back towards his bedroom, wanting the shirt he’s wearing— _Brett’s_ shirt, which Brett had retrieved from his lacrosse bag and had given to Deaton to give to Theo to replace his ruined one— _off_. He’s not expecting much of a reprieve and he doesn’t _get_ one, though Liam does stumble, gratifyingly, when Theo yanks the shirt over his head on his way down the hallway.

But Liam recovers fast, and puts on a little burst of speed to catch up with him. 

“I can’t fucking _believe_ you!” Liam hisses as he follows Theo through his bedroom door, and stands in the middle of the room practically _shaking_ with restrained rage or disappointment or whatever, his eyes burning on Theo’s back as Theo jerks open one of the drawers of his dresser, and starts digging around for a new shirt.

“You know,” Theo responds tightly, picking a shirt pretty much at random and _yanking_ it over his head; it catches on his bracelet, and he has to bite off a snarl. He’s wearing Brett’s sweatpants, too, but after a moment’s indecision he leaves those; like hell he’s going to deal with trying to change _them_ right now, “technically this is trespassing.”

He turns around in time to see Liam’s expression go fish-mouthed as he stares at Theo in _outrage_ , but it’s Brett—coming up behind Liam and leaning against the doorframe—who answers, “ _Technically_ , you haven’t actually asked us to leave.”

It’s a challenge, and one he’s apparently confident that Theo isn’t going to take him up on. Theo glares at him over the top of Liam’s head again, and then bites off a frustrated noise, and looks away.

“You know what _I_ can’t believe,” Theo finally replies, answering Liam’s earlier hissed accusation several _minutes_ late. He flicks his eyes one to the other between Liam and Brett and then back to Liam, and he grinds out, “ _I_ can’t believe that you two are _punishing me_ for preventing a _war!_ ”

Liam _recoils_. Theo’s not sure if it’s the volume or—or his flared eyes, and fanged mouth, neither of which he’d meant to lose control of. But for all that Liam takes that first initial step back, he’s surging back _forward_ almost instantly, eating up even more of the last meager bit of distance between himself and Theo. 

“You think we wouldn’t have rather fought a _war_ than have you _dead?!_ ” He half-snarls, half-shouts. Behind him, Brett’s still leaning in the doorframe, accidentally-or-on-purpose guarding the doorway and trapping them all in the room together, and his eyes are hard, and hooded, and his arms are crossed. 

Theo stares at him, and then at Liam, and then he feels his expression twist as he snarls back, “You’re so goddamn naive sometimes!” He flicks his eyes back to Brett. “You, though,” he accuses, mouth twisting in sneer. “You, I don’t know _what_ is going on with, because you are _not_ this naive.”

“Hey!” Liam protests fiercely, just as Brett’s eyes narrow and he comes off the doorframe and says, “ _Excuse_ me?”

But they’re not the only ones who are angry. They’re not the only ones who _get_ to be angry. “Why are neither of you _listening_ to me!” He yells at them. “It would have been a _war_. A _war_. Is that not—do you not understand what that would have _meant?_ ”

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Liam snaps back, and he’s biting it out around a mouthful of too-sharp teeth. 

But Brett just looks levelly at him and challenges, “You think you understand better than we do?”

“Apparently!” Theo shoots back. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be _having_ this idiotic argument!”

“Idiotic—!” Liam practically _wheezes_ out, he’s apparently so incensed. “ _Argument—?_ ,” like he can’t believe that’s what Theo thinks is happening. Theo ignores him.

“It wouldn’t have been like with Monroe,” Theo explains, very tightly. “Okay? Do you _get that?_ ” Liam’s brow just furrows, and the line of Brett’s mouth tightens. “Those three weren’t high school _guidance counselors_ who picked up a few books. They were members of a _centuries-old hunting clan_.”

He whips his gaze back and forth between the two of them. 

“You really would have wanted _Scott_ and _Mason_ and _Corey_ and the others,” Theo accuses, staring straight at Liam, “or _Lori_ ,” he continues bitingly, jerking to look at Brett instead, “to have to fight a war against _them?_ ”

Both of their expressions flicker, losing some of their hard-edged, _bullshit_ self-righteousness, and Theo seizes on the advantage while he has it.

“So, yeah!” He snarls. “I made a _choice_. A war that probably would have _wiped you all out_ , or one more dead omega!”

The second it’s out of his mouth, his throat closes up. _One more dead omega_ , he hears echoing around his own skull, jagged and poisonous and feeling like it’d coated his mouth and tongue and throat with an acidic, burning residue on its way out. He tries to swallow, and barely manages it. 

Brett and Liam are both staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed and apparently stunned silent. For a brief, helpless moment Theo wonders if that had been _it_ , the magic series of words and explanations that had finally convinced them that Theo had been _right_ to do what he did, but he—knows better.

He—at least—isn’t that naive.

“One more dead,” Liam starts to splutter, and his face is _red_ with fury. “One more dead. One more _dead omega?!_ ” He finally manages to get out, practically _shrieking_ it. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!”

Theo just tightens his jaw, and holds both Liam’s eyes and his ground.

“Which part,” he challenges, and flicks his eyes back to Brett before returning them to Liam, “are you claiming is _incorrect?_ ”

It’d been a taunt, and he’d been deliberately _trying_ to get under Liam’s—and Brett’s—skin, but he still isn’t expecting it when Liam suddenly _lunges_ for him. He startles backwards—running into the dresser behind himself—with his eyes going wide and his hands coming reflexively up, but Liam doesn’t manage to reach him; Brett surges forward before he can, and catches him, _dragging_ him to a stop.

“Liam. Liam, _hey_ ,” Brett murmurs to him, low and soothing and with more than a little _alpha-calm_ saturating his voice. “Hey.”

He’s got one arm around the front of Liam’s shoulders and his body half-angled in front of Liam’s, and it _hurts_ Theo for some reason to see it; either because he _hates_ that he’d been the one to cause Liam that much distress, or because—of something else. He grits his teeth, and straightens up.

“You know what,” he snarls. “ _Fuck you both_.” Brett and Liam both jerk, and look up at him in surprise. Theo just glares back, nostrils flaring. “For _once_ in my goddamn life, I had the opportunity to _save lives_ rather than destroy them, and you two want me to goddamn apologize for that?”

He pauses, very deliberately, and then concludes:

“Go to hell.”

He shoves off the dresser, fully intending to storm past Brett and Liam still stood stock-still in the middle of the room; he can’t _handle_ being trapped in this too-small room with them and their accusations anymore. But as he goes to pass them Liam suddenly shakes loose of Brett’s now slack hold, and grabs his arm, and drags _him_ to a stop. 

“That’s what,” Liam whispers, his eyes searching Theo’s when Theo looks reluctantly down at him. “That’s what this is about?”

Theo’s jaw clenches, and he tries to rip loose of Liam’s hold and keep walking. But Liam just follows him, and literally _drops_ his weight to haul Theo back to a stop. But he overcorrects, really, and Theo doesn’t just stop, but staggers back into him.

They wind up very close, by the time they’ve steadied both themselves, and—reflexively—each other. 

Theo stiffens, too-aware of Liam’s breath skating across his lips, and jaw, as Liam stares up at him. It’s not made any easier by how close Liam’s actions had put them to _Brett_ , who’s staring at them wide-eyed and uncertain, like he’s unsure whether he should move away. 

Like he’s unsure of whether he’s interrupting, or unwanted. Theo’s chest twists. But:

“Hey,” Liam whispers, drawing Theo’s attention back to him. “Is that what…?” He starts to ask again, and Theo can’t _take_ it.

“You know who I am,” he spits out, but softly. But croakily. He finds, suddenly, that he’s not angry with Liam, or Brett anymore. He’s just _tired_. “You know what I’ve done.”

But Liam doesn’t pull away, or stop searching his face. “So, so _what?_ ” He demands, still in that self-same, desperate whisper. “So you just. So who you _were,_ is the only person you’ll ever get to _be?_ ”

_Yes_ , Theo thinks, staring at him. _No,_ some small, desperate corner of himself _wants_ to believe. _I don’t know_.

But it’s Brett who speaks up. But it’s Brett who suddenly says, “I don’t know what good exactly you’re expecting your _corpse_ to be to Josh, and Tracy, and yours and the Dread Doctors’ other,” he stumbles a bit, “other victims.”

Theo jerks, and looks up at him. The line of Brett’s mouth tightens.

“You know, for all your sanctimonious _bullshit_ ,” Brett tells him, his voice starting to rise and starting to shred more and more, “you _dying_ is the easy way out, isn’t it?”

“ _What?_ ” Theo breathes, stunned, just as Liam flinches and protests, feebly, “Brett, c’mon, that’s—”

“ _No_ ,” Brett just interrupts hotly. “No, for _once_ tonight, you,” he orders, glaring directly at Theo, “are going to listen to _me_.”

Theo’s jaw snaps shut. Brett hadn’t even put any alpha force behind his words, it just _does_.

“You think sacrificing yourself to stop a war that you don’t even _know_ would have happened, for people who would _one hundred times over_ rather have fought it even if it did than have to bury you. You think that’s _brave?_ You think that’s _justifiable?_ ” Brett demands, and _now_ he takes a step closer. 

Theo has to tip his head further back to keep looking at him; can’t _not_ keep looking at him, his breath stuck somewhere in his throat. 

“You’re _lying_ to yourself,” Brett tells him. “You’re lying to _us_.” He’s practically shoulder-to-shoulder now with Liam, who’s looking up at him with the same stunned expression that Theo is. Brett just keeps his eyes fixed on Theo’s face, searching it. He grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath. “You want to make up for what you did?” He demands. “Then you don’t add yourself to the body count. You _stay alive_ to help ensure no one else gets added to the body count, either!”

Theo doesn’t know what to say. The best he can manage is a breathless, “Brett,” so quiet that it’s almost _silent_. 

“Dead’s just dead, Theo,” Brett finally concludes softly. “Maybe you can’t, whatever, make any more mistakes, hurt anymore people, after. But you can’t _fix_ anything, either.”

Theo can’t breathe. He literally can’t get enough air through his closed-up throat, and he staggers backwards, suddenly, just trying to suck in air. Both Liam and Brett immediately lunge for him with startled noises, their hands on each of his arms and hauling him back up; steadying him. Theo hangs between them for a second, panting fast and uneven, and then he bites off a noise and twists around until he can drop onto the edge of his bed, and bury his face in his hands.

Brett and Liam almost immediately follow him; he can _feel it_ , even if he can’t see it.

_It would have been a war_ , he thinks, his mind’s eye dredging up the hat-wearing hunter’s smirking face, and arrogant, too-easy posture as he’d sat next to Theo bleeding out on that bench. And it _would have been_ , Theo’s sure of it; he knows enough pack history to know it for _sure_. But. _But._

_You think we wouldn’t have rather fought a war than have you_ dead _?_ Liam had yelled. And then Brett had said, _you want to make up for what you did? You_ stay alive. He’d said, _dead’s just dead_ , and _maybe you can’t make any more mistakes, hurt anymore people, after. But you can’t_ fix _anything, either_. 

_Dead’s just dead._

Theo makes a noise, and burrows a little harder into his hands.

Liam cracks first in the sudden deafening silence that follows. Theo still has his face hidden in his hands so he can’t see it, but then Liam takes a hold of one his bracing arms, and starts tugging it away from his face. When he finally manages it, Theo sees that Liam is kneeling in front of him, now, sat back on his heels and with his expression just one big open wound.

He doesn’t let go of Theo’s arm.

“Hey,” he whispers, urgently. More than a little insistently. “Hey, Theo, _please_ …”

Theo doesn’t actually know what he’s asking for. He doesn’t think Liam does, either. Theo’s expression starts to crumple in on itself.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he confesses hoarsely; helplessly. “I don’t know how to do any of this.” 

He’s looking at Liam when he first says it. He drags his gaze up to Brett’s after, and feels his expression twist _more_ as he sees the cracked-open, equally-raw look on Brett’s face. But he looks back down at Liam almost immediately after, because Liam reaches forward, and touches the barest tips of his fingers to the side of Theo’s jaw.

“I don’t either,” he admits, just as hoarsely. “I don’t—I don’t think any of us do,” he adds, looking up at Brett. “But I think that’s what—that’s what growing up _is_ , isn’t it? It’s—figuring this kind of shit out.”

He swallows, and looks back down at Theo, and gives him the barest _flicker_ of a raw smile. 

“I mean,” he offers shakily. “I’m an eighteen year-old beta with a mental illness _literally_ named after an improvised explosive device.” 

He looks back up at Brett.

“You’re an eighteen year-old alpha, whose entire pack was slaughtered for the crime of just—just being what they _were_. For being _werewolves_.”

He returns his attention to Theo.

“We’ve all got things we have to learn to live with. To—to figure out,” he finishes. “So—so, you know. Figure them out _with_ us,” he proposes.

And then his eyes go wide, and he flushes a bright, fire-engine red.

“Um, I didn’t mean,” he hurries to correct, his words practically tripping over themselves. “That came out wrong. Well, not _wrong_ , wrong. I mean. I _meant_.” He stops suddenly, and his expression twists with benign frustration. “You know what I meant!”

It’s such a perfectly jarring interruption; a sudden burst of absurdity slotted right into the gravity of the moment, grinding the gears. It’s such a perfectly _Liam_ thing to do, so very genuine and heartfelt and _awkward_. Theo can’t tell if he wants to laugh, or give into the twisting, writhing mass of _whatever_ in his chest. 

He winds up doing some fucked-up combination of both, letting loose a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

Liam’s expression twists even more with irritation, and then it softens with—relief, maybe. With understanding, maybe. He reaches forward, and gets his hands cupped around Theo’s face; Theo’s breath freezes in his chest, and he can’t help staring directly at him. 

“I don’t know what I would have done if Brett had been calling me to tell me he’d found your body, earlier,” he confesses, his voice cracking throughout. 

And Theo—Theo just _breaks_.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his hands rising to wrap around Liam’s wrists; he can see his bracelet out of the corner of his eye, and it makes everything _worse_. “I’m sorry, I’m—” He can’t sit still anymore; he surges forward into Liam, knocking him back for a second before Liam manages to regain his balance, and steady them both. “I’m sorry, I thought I was—I was so _sure_ I was doing the right—” He buries his face in Liam’s neck, and tightens his arms around Liam’s shoulders.

Liam makes a soft, wordless noise and pulls him in tighter; clings just as fiercely back. 

But it isn’t long before Theo pulls back, because— _because_ …

He looks up at Brett, who’s standing and staring down at them with this raw, torn-open expression on his face. He _flinches_ when he realizes he has Theo’s attention, all his earlier alpha _whatever_ gone, and dusted.

“I’m sorry,” Theo tells him, and _means it_. “Brett, I’m so—”

He stands—Liam immediately letting him go—to surge into Brett instead. The noise Brett makes is more startled, more thrown, but it only takes him a second to wrap his arms tightly enough around Theo’s back to be compressing Theo’s lungs, a little. 

Theo doesn’t care.

“I could feel it,” Brett tells him, hoarse and rasping. “I could _feel it_ , when you gave up. I could—”

“I’m sorry,” Theo says again. “I’m sorry, I’m—” 

_Sorry_. It just keeps bubbling up his throat, rising from the mess caged between his ribs: _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_. He buries his face in Brett’s neck so that he’ll stop saying it, but he doesn’t stop _thinking_ it, helpless and unstoppable and _heavy_. 

He drops, at one point, one hand down, searching. Liam finds it, almost immediately, and clutches it between both of his own, squeezing. It’s his left, he only realizes after. He can feel Liam’s fingers catch on his bracelet.

He’s not actually sure how long he stays like that. Long enough for his breathing to steady—long enough for Brett’s to steady, too, Theo feeling it in Brett’s chest against his own—and long enough for some of his thoughts to start going sluggish, slow; his earlier injury and the process of healing catching up to him. He staggers, a bit.

Brett immediately catches him, and Liam rockets to his feet to do the same. 

Theo winds up pressed between them, to a certain extent, and he closes his eyes and drops his forehead against Brett’s shoulder even as he leans back a little heavier against Liam. 

“You need to sleep,” Brett finally murmurs, giving voice to the obvious. 

Theo grimaces, because he doesn’t _want_ … He lifts his head, and looks first at Brett, and then back at Liam. “Stay?” He asks, in barely more than a whisper. “Please, just…” 

Brett’s lips flicker, just a bit. “There is,” he points out, “a certain amount of irony in _you_ asking _us_ that.”

Theo winces, and says, “I know,” because he _does_. 

But Brett just searches his face, for a few seconds, and then says, “Okay.” He glances over Theo’s shoulder at Liam, but Liam doesn’t even wait for him to ask.

“Yeah,” he agrees, Theo feeling even that single word rumble through Liam’s chest pressed up against his back. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

They stay.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have the smut. The last two chapters tomorrow. Whoo!

_**Brett** _

They end up pulling Theo’s mattress onto the floor, because it’s the only way all three of them are going to fit onto it without one of them falling off and cracking their heads—temporarily—open.

Liam’s the one who goes to retrieve Theo’s comforter, and pillow, from the couch. Brett’s the one who gets Theo sat—already heavy-eyed, and swaying—on the edge of the now floor-bound mattress, and starts working his shoes off. It puts him up close to his sweatpants still on Theo’s legs, his own scent mixing with Theo’s, and he can’t help the way he breathes deep, no matter how much he tries to stop himself from doing it. Theo must realize what he’s doing, because his lips quirk.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Brett just finishes pulling off his last shoe, and sock. “For which part?” He wonders. 

He’d yanked Theo’s foot a little harder than he’d meant to as he’d replied, and Theo falls back onto his elbows. His eyes never leave Brett’s face. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly. “For all of it.”

Brett just looks at him, and then looks at Liam as Liam reappears in the doorway, practically _buried_ behind the scrunched-up ball of the comforter, and Theo’s pillow under his arm. Brett feels his lips flicker. He glances back at Theo.

“Hopefully not _all_ of it,” he counters, and smiles wider at the stunned, soft look that takes over Theo’s face. 

They end up all lying down perpendicular to the usual direction of the mattress, their legs hanging over the edge. Brett doesn’t mind and neither, apparently, does Liam; he just curls up into a little ball facing Theo, who lies flat on his back between them, his eyelids already falling closed, and struggling open, as he watches Brett and Liam finish getting settled. Between the three of them it’s already _sweltering_ , but Brett—thinks of Theo’s cold fevers, or whatever the hell they are, and the tenuous connections he’s started drawing to their _causes_ , and gets the comforter draped over all three of them, and then scoots closer in towards Theo.

Liam does the same.

Theo ends up going out within a minute, and Liam follows shortly afterwards. It’s Brett who finds himself struggling to sleep, one arm folded under his head as he studies first Theo’s sleeping face, and then Liam’s, and then back to Theo’s, over and over in a loop. He lays like that for ten minutes, for twenty, for half an hour, more, his thoughts all feeling sharp-edged and _dangerous_ , and it’s probably not an accident that Liam’s eyes eventually flicker back open; Brett can only imagine what the hell his scent is doing.

“Hey,” Liam croaks, squinting at him. 

He says it quiet, clearly conscious of Theo still sleeping between them, but his eyes catch and then fix on Brett’s own. He rises up a little and then folds his own arm under his head so he can see Brett better. He squints at Brett like it might help him better see past Brett’s skin and flesh and bones directly to his thoughts underneath. Brett can’t help laughing a little, amused.

Liam’s expression goes dry.

But then it sombers, some, and his eyelashes flutter as he turns his head briefly away, resettling it, and then he refocuses, lip between his teeth, on Brett. “I don’t think I ever said,” he tells him quietly. “I don’t think I ever _told you_ …” He trails off.

“What?” Brett wonders, just as quietly.

Liam touches his tongue to his lip, and finally says, “Thank you. I don’t think I ever said _thank you_. For—for finding him.” His whole expression crumples, a little, as he apparently remembers: _Theo would have died tonight if I hadn’t found him when I did, but he didn’t_ have _to_. “For—for saving his life.”

Brett shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. But in glancing away from Liam he glances _at_ Theo, and that’s really not any better. He can feel his own expression crumple.

Liam makes a soft, thoughtful noise, and Brett _jumps_ , and jerks to look back at him again. Liam’s eyes flick over his face, searching it. “Wow,” he finally breathes. “You, uh. You really do care about him.”

Brett stiffens, and it takes everything in himself not to sit up. Not to _move away_. But the effort’s almost wasted when Liam suddenly looks panicked, and _lunges_ for him over Theo’s body. Theo makes a face, and shifts a little in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up; Brett and Liam both stare down at him, frozen, Liam’s hand still clenched around Brett’s arm.

After a few seconds, they both apparently conclude that they’re in the clear; Liam relaxes down, some, just as Brett does, though he doesn’t take his hand away. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean. That wasn’t a _criticism_.”

Brett grimaces. He’s a little embarrassed at the strength of his earlier reaction and he sure as shit doesn’t know what to say _now_ , with Liam holding onto him and looking at him through his wide, earnest eyes. He brings a hand up, eventually, to gently take hold of Liam’s wrist, and deposit Liam’s hand back by his chest. He leans back.

“I think I’m the one who has to apologize,” Brett confesses, once he’s done.

Liam’s brow furrows. “For—what?”

Something in Brett’s chest clenches. His eyes flick to Theo’s sleeping face. “For him,” he murmurs, then grimaces and quickly corrects. “For _me_ and him.” 

There’s no way Liam hadn’t figured that out, or at least some piece of his and Theo’s complicated relationship. But when Brett glances back at Liam, Liam is staring at him, eyes narrowed and visibly confused. 

“I’m. I’m not sure _what_ ,” Liam starts to say. 

Brett _stares_ at him. “He loves you,” Liam’s eyes just go wide, and his mouth just drops open. Brett can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Liam, you. You had to have _known that_.” _It’s the most obvious thing in the world_ , Brett thinks, but doesn’t say.

But Liam just sputters. “What. How would I. _Why_ would I,” he stutters, his eyes darting back and forth between Brett, and Theo between them. He stops, and fixes his gaze on Brett again. “I mean, I knew that _I_ —” He cuts himself off, his eyes going even _wider_. “Um.”

Brett stares at him. A wide, helpless smile starts to take his face. He probably _shouldn’t be_ , but he really _is_ , helplessly amused. 

“That wasn’t a secret, either,” he tells Liam, his voice practically _burbling_ with restrained laughter. 

Liam _blanches_ , and then goes bright red. Brett can see him practically _vibrating_ with sudden anxiety, and he isn’t surprised in the slightest when Liam suddenly gives up on being horizontal, and sits up. He winds up taking most of the comforter with him when he goes, and Theo’s face scrunches up again and he makes a little protest of a noise, and tries to follow it. Liam _freezes_ as he jerks to look down at him, and then his expression softens, and he very deliberately untangles himself from the comforter, and gets it settled back around Theo. 

He stays sitting up, once he’s done. 

There’s no chance he’s going to lie back down anytime soon, and it feels a little silly to keep talking to him still lying flat, so Brett sits up, too. He does it a little more sedately, though, his eyes on Theo’s face, and the easy line of his shoulders, as he gets his legs crossed underneath himself, his knees just inches away from Theo’s back.

Liam glances at him, once he’s settled, and then grimaces and looks away again. “I mean, I guess it’s not a secret that it wasn’t a secret,” he suddenly says, back to whispering. “I sort of—I sort of figured everybody knew about _me_ , anyway.” His eyes flick back to Theo. Brett can practically _see_ what he’s thinking: _I didn’t know about_ him _, though._

Some of Brett’s amusement softens; goes sympathetic. He quirks Liam a half-smile. “I knew almost _instantly_. It was the only thing that made him staying, and getting that _thing_ put on him,” he nods towards the bracelet wrapped around Theo’s left wrist, currently hidden under the blanket, “make any sense.”

Liam lifts his head to look at him, and his searching eyes on Brett’s face are _wary_. Are _hopeful_. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh, you really…?” He looks back down at Theo, his tongue pressed to his bottom lip, like there’s a bunch of puzzle pieces rearranging themselves inside his head, and click-click-clicking into a new shape. “Oh.”

Brett smiles again, even as something in his chest is _twisting_. Liam looks up at him, sharp and startled; his scent must have done something strange. He forces himself to hold Liam’s eyes, and repeat, “So, anyway. Sorry, about—” _fucking him anyway; starting to care about him anyway; hoping it all could work out somehow, anyway._ “Just. Sorry.”

But when he looks back up at Liam, Liam doesn’t look vindicated, or angry, or however Brett thought he might look. He just looks _sad_. He realizes that Brett’s looking at him, and he quirks Brett his own half-smile, which twists almost immediately into a half-grimace. “I wish you weren’t,” he confesses softly, and Brett _stares_.

“What?” He breathes.

Liam colors, and then shrugs, dropping his eyes to the mattress below him and running a finger around the sheet next to his bare foot.

“He needs as many people to care about him as possible,” Liam mumbles, speaking it more to his knees than to Brett. “It’s—that’s the only way he’s going to learn to see what _I_ —what _you_ ,” he suddenly adds, glancing up at Brett, “see.” He colors again, seemingly a little embarrassed by his own intensity, and drops his eyes back down. “So, anyway. I’m not _mad_ at you for it, or whatever. I’m—I’m grateful.”

He sucks in a deep breath, and forces himself—Brett can see the strain in his neck—to look back at Brett as he repeats:

“I’m grateful.”

Brett doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t exactly been expecting absolution—hadn’t been _looking_ for it, either—but he _does_ know it eases something cramped up tight, and cornered-animal wary in his chest. He stares at Liam staring at him, Liam’s eyes flickering away and back to his, Liam’s lips curled in a slight, soft smile.

And then they both _jump_ , because Theo suddenly murmurs, “You two do _know_ that I’m literally right here, don’t you?”

Liam just tips his head to scowl down at him, apparently heedless of the flush across his cheeks. “ _You_ are supposed to be asleep,” he points out mulishly.

“I _was_ ,” Theo counters, his voice croaking, “until all of your… _emotions_ woke me up.”

He’s probably not being—just—an asshole. He’d probably literally been woken up by the peaks and valleys of Liam’s and Brett’s scents, by their pounding pulses and the trembling tones to their voices. His instincts had probably been _yowling_. Brett—doesn’t quite have it in him to be sorry. 

Not—not anymore, anyway.

“Oh,” Liam says, and Brett realizes after a second that he’s not looking at Theo. He’s looking at _Brett_ , searching his face and apparently deciding based on whatever he’d seen there that Theo wasn’t just bullshitting. He colors again. “Oh, sorry.”

But Theo, surprising Brett—and surprising Liam, if the way he jumps is anything to go by—just reaches up, and touches his fingers to the side of Liam’s face. Just like, Brett realizes, just like _Liam_ had done to _Theo_ earlier. And then Theo looks up at Liam when Liam looks down at him, and he murmurs, “I wish you weren’t.”

Liam’s mouth drops open, apparently recognizing his own words. He keeps staring down at Theo staring up at him, Theo’s fingers still on the side of his jaw.

Brett watches them, something gone sharp in his chest even as something else is _blooming_. “Jesus, Raeken,” he finally says, startling them both. “If _you’re_ not going to kiss him, I sure as hell will.”

It’s a joke. It’s meant as a prod to get them to _do something_ other than just keep staring doe-eyed at each other. He doesn’t _mean it_.

But Theo’s eyes flick to his, and narrow, and then they flick back to Liam, who’s staring at Brett with _Bambi_ -wide eyes. His mouth had dropped even farther open, this perfect, round ‘O’. He is, as far as Brett can tell, barely breathing.

But Theo—Theo doesn’t look so poleaxed. Theo looks _thoughtful_ , and he suddenly drags his fingertips up the side of Liam’s cheek, until they’re just brushing Liam’s mouth. Brett feels his own breath catch just as _Liam’s_ does, his eyes darting back to Theo’s.

Theo just grins at him, soft but a little sharp; a little devious. A little more like, Brett thinks, his usual self. “Now _there’s_ an idea,” he finally murmurs, and grins _wider_ when Liam—and _Brett_ , for that matter—both freeze, and stare at him. Theo just drags his fingers a little further along Liam’s bottom lip, pulling it down, some. “What do you think, Dunbar? It was your idea first.”

“Wha— _my_ idea?” Liam stutters, just as Brett thinks, brow furrowing, _his_ _idea_ , and then he remembers: 

_We’ve all got things we have to learn to live with. To figure out. So, you know. Figure them out_ with _us._

Brett’s eyes widen, and then snap to Theo’s. _He can’t seriously be suggesting_. But Theo’s already looking back, and he’s not wearing that sharp, suggestive smirk anymore; the line of his mouth has gone tight, and his expression tense, and wary. _He means it_ , Brett realizes. 

He really fucking _means_ it. 

But he’s ripped out of his own thoughts a second later when _Liam_ apparently finally catches on, and stammers, “Oh. _Oh_. You—you,” his eyes search Theo’s face, and then dart briefly to Brett’s, before darting back to Theo’s. “Are you being serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Theo tells him, easily enough for the way Brett can hear Theo’s heartbeat _pounding_ in his ears. “As,” Theo adds, after a second, “a hunter’s poisoned blade through the liver—” He cuts himself off, and grimaces at Liam. “Too soon?”

Liam’s expression is twisted with some strange combination of both amusement, and pain. “ _Way_ too soon,” he croaks. “ _Forever_ too soon,” he emphasizes.

And then he twists around, suddenly, and presses his mouth to Theo’s. 

For all his brash confidence, Theo apparently hadn’t expected it. He jolts underneath Liam—Brett can see his eyes go briefly wide, before they slip shut—and then he shudders, and moans softly, and kisses Liam back. His hands come up to slide into Liam’s hair, and Brett can tell the exact moment that he must tighten them, because Liam gives this high-pitched, helpless little _yelp_ , and shudders in turn.

And then he rips himself back upwards, his breath coming hard and fast, to stare wide-eyed at Brett. 

“Um, hi,” he says, breathless and completely nonsensically. He _flushes_. “I, um. I have no idea how—” 

_To do this_. Brett’s pretty sure the rest of that sentence ends with _how to do this_ , and so he—shoving down every panicked, clanging alarm in his head—leans forward, and gets a hand around Liam’s head, and pulls him in. 

He _moans_ the second his mouth touches Liam’s, because he can _taste_ Theo on Liam’s lips. It’s a taste he’s spent the last few months tasting, _craving_ , and desperately _telling_ himself he wasn’t craving; a taste that he was so, so sure he was going to _lose_. He pulls Liam harder into himself, and strokes his tongue more firmly against Liam’s mouth, and then _in_ when Liam immediately drops his jaw open, and chases every bit of it down that he can.

But it doesn’t take long for him to find it all—to _claim_ it all—and after that it’s just—Liam. Brett moans again, softer this time, and gentles the kiss, his hands around Liam’s head loosening up some so that he’s _cradling_ the sides of Liam’s face, not—not holding him still, or whatever he’d been desperately doing before. 

He pulls away, finally, _slowly_ , his eyes heavy-lidded and his hands still around Liam’s face. Liam’s eyes are just hooded, and his breath is _panting_ against Brett’s lips, and Brett has to resist the urge to kiss him again, and instead leans the rest of the way back. 

Still flat on his back between them, Theo is staring up at them with a _stunned_ expression. “Oh,” he manages, when Brett flicks his eyes down to him. “Okay, yeah. I think—I think that’s going to work.”

Brett feels his expression go dry, and he starts to roll his eyes, but then he stops as he realizes—he looks back down at Theo. Theo looks up at him, and he must realize the same thing, because the second Brett starts leaning down towards him, Theo surges _up_ , meeting him halfway. Their mouths connect with more force than either of them likely meant, but Brett doesn’t care, and apparently neither does _Theo_ , because he collapses back down—his hands coming up around Brett’s face to _drag_ Brett down with him—as he opens his mouth for Brett’s tongue, and _moans_ as Brett presses him further into the mattress.

But then he jolts and twists around some to look up, because Liam suddenly whispers, “Holy shit,” hoarsely. 

His eyes are wide. And not just _wide_ : his pupils are _blown_. The flush on his cheeks is probably at least a little bit uncertainty, but it’s also _interest_. It’s _arousal_. Brett sucks in a deep, reflexive breath at the sight, and after that he’s not just smelling it: his system is _flooded_ with the scent of Liam’s arousal, too. He groans, and has to turn his face against the edge of Theo’s jaw beneath him, and _press_ it there, just trying to reign in the shift suddenly _surging_ underneath his skin.

He can feel it when Theo grins. He’s already bracing for whatever’s about to fall out of his mouth, and Theo doesn’t disappoint. “Hey there, red-eyes,” he murmurs, even though Brett’s eyes are _closed_ , and there’s no way he can know that. “Having some trouble?”

Brett just grimaces, at first, and then—he smirks, and skates the tip of his nose around the curve of Theo’s jaw, until his mouth is by Theo’s ear. “Actually,” he tells him, “I’m _plotting_.”

He rears up. Theo is squinting at him suspiciously but Brett just ignores him, and looks at Liam, grinning and crooking a finger. Liam hesitates, eyeing him warily, and then he shoots Theo a strange look and slowly, slowly, crawls forward, closer to Brett. 

Brett just waits, and then when Liam’s close enough, he leans in, and kisses him again, hard but brief. But even after he stops kissing him he leaves his mouth against Liam’s, so that when he speaks, his lips brush Liam’s on every word.

“How would you like,” he asks Liam, low and smooth and _wicked_ , and _just_ loud enough that he knows that Theo can hear him, Theo still below and between Liam and Brett and clearly hanging on every word, “to learn how to take Theo _apart?_ ”

Liam’s breath _catches_. Theo’s does, too, but Brett’s focus is on Liam, and the way he immediately starts squirming, his nose and cheek brushing against Brett’s as he keeps giving these little half-turns of his head, darting glances down at Theo and then immediately yanking his eyes back to Brett. 

“Um,” Liam stammers, just as Theo finally manages to croak, “Pretty sure of yourself there, _Talbot_.”

Brett just holds out a hand towards him, his index finger extended and the rest folded in against his palm: _wait_. He keeps his eyes on Liam. “Well?” He wonders, still low and smooth and easy.

Liam locks eyes with him finally, no more little sneaking looks at Theo, and freezes. He stares at Brett for a few seconds, his mouth just slightly parted and his eyes just slightly wide, and then he says, “ _Yes_ ,” says, “Yes, _please_.”

Brett grins against his mouth.

He also ignores Theo muttering, “Jesus _christ_ ,” to himself, and concentrates on getting his fingers wound in the hem of Liam’s shirt. The first brush of his fingers against the bare skin of Liam’s stomach has him jumping, and his scent _spiking_ , and he gives this soft, helpless little moan that Brett has to try and capture, his tongue stroking _deep_ into Liam’s mouth before he has to lean back, and away, to finish pulling Liam’s shirt off his shoulders. 

It leaves his hair a mess, and his eyes glazed. No one’s really even _touched him_ yet but his cheek and neck and shoulders are all flushed pink, and Brett can’t help it; he leans forward and gets one hand on the side of Liam’s neck, and his mouth on the other. 

He learns, quickly, that putting his teeth to the tendon at the base of his throat makes Liam gasp, and dragging his lips and tongue up the side of his neck to nose at his ear makes him shudder. A thumb pressed lightly to his Adam’s apple makes his breath hitch. A nip and then a soothing stroke of Brett’s tongue to his jaw makes his hips rock restlessly up against air. 

And then it’s not just _against air_ , because Liam gives a high-pitched little whine, and Brett pulls back and glances down to see that Theo had rolled onto his side, and reached forward, and given Liam something to rock up _against_ ; Brett watches Liam’s hip roll against Theo’s palm braced low and hard over the bulge in his jeans, and has to swallow around his _own_ dry throat, suddenly. 

Liam’s hands had flown up to Brett’s shoulders almost the second Brett had put his mouth to Liam’s throat, and now they’re _clutching_. “I’m not, not exactly _complaining_ ,” he pants out, “but I thought. I _thought—_ ” He cuts off on another helpless whine, Theo _twisting_ his palm against Liam’s covered cock.

Brett groans, and forces himself to lean back, and then reach _down_ to grab Theo’s wrist, and drag his hand away from Liam. It’s definitely instinct, not conscious thought, that has Theo snapping too-sharp teeth at him from below flared-eyes as he does it, but Brett still feels the shift _surge_ under his own skin. He can feel his own eyes flaring even as Theo is blinking the shift away from his own face. He lets them stay flared as he smiles, slow and molasses-smooth, down at Theo.

“You,” he orders, and gives Theo’s wrist a warning little squeeze, “go get us what we need.”

Theo hesitates, clearly torn between being a contrary asshole—in other words, _himself_ —and wanting what comes _after_ he does as instructed, and then he bites off a sound and scrambles smoothly to the side, out from between Brett and Liam and to his feet. He’s visibly hard in his sweatpants— _Brett’s_ sweatpants—as he stands, and Brett feels his own breath catch at the sight a split-second before he hears Liam’s do the same.

That little sound is enough to refocus Brett on the goal at hand. “C’mere,” he murmurs to Liam, moving back some on the mattress so that he’s kneeling in the middle of it, towards the more traditional ‘end.’ Liam immediately follows, gratifyingly, but he stops further away than Brett had originally intended, and bites his lip as he looks at Brett.

“You, um,” he stammers. “You’re still wearing, you know. A lot of clothes.”

His face _flames_ after he says it. _God damn, Liam_ , Brett thinks, as helplessly amused—as helplessly _fond_ —as he is helplessly aroused. He forces himself to keep everything but the latter off his face, and smirks at Liam. “That’s easily correctable,” he points out, and then waits.

It takes Liam a second to get it, and then he does. His eyes widen, and that’s the only warning Brett gets before Liam is scrambling forward, and winding his fingers in Brett’s shirt to start tugging it over his head. He gets it tossed somewhere to the side—Brett literally has no idea where, he’s too focused on Liam focused on _him_ to pay attention—and then Liam reaches forward with strangely tentative fingers to touch the bare skin of Brett’s stomach.

Brett _moans_.

Liam _jumps_ , his eyes flicking up to Brett’s face, but he must like whatever he sees there because he grins, and his touch becomes a little less tentative. He presses his fingers harder against Brett’s fluttering stomach, and then _drags_ them up Brett’s chest, circling them around a little before dragging them—skating over Brett’s quickly hardening nipples—back down.

“Jesus christ,” he finally concludes, his eyes following his fingers’ progress and his voice breathy.

Brett _grins_ , but then Theo—reappearing from his journey to the nightstand to retrieve the little bottle in his hand—snorts. “Don’t shower him with too much praise,” he warns Liam, and gives Brett a shit-eating grin over Liam’s shoulder. “He really doesn’t need it.”

“Yeah, but he might _deserve_ it,” Liam mutters, and then _colors_.

Theo just _laughs_ , loud and unrestrained—the sound of it twists something briefly in Brett’s chest, something other than arousal—and then he kneels down behind Liam, setting the little bottle off to the side as he presses himself up against Liam’s back, and hooks his chin over Liam’s shoulder. Liam clearly instantly understands what he wants; he twists around so that he can kiss Theo, or Theo can kiss him, or whatever, and then moans softly into Theo’s mouth as Theo’s hands land on the side of his ribs, and start stroking _down_.

Brett nearly stops him. He nearly says something clever, and sure to get a reaction out of Theo—something like _still not the deal Liam and I made_ —but instead he holds his tongue, because Theo’s fingers are trembling slightly against Liam’s skin, and Brett doesn’t think it’s _just_ arousal, and anticipation. 

Liam’s not doing any better; his hand had slid into and then _clutched_ at Theo’s hair, holding Theo’s head still and Theo’s mouth to his as they kissed. His other hand had reached back and around to anchor Theo to him that way, too, and Brett can _just_ see how white his knuckles are in the moon- and streetlight filtering in through Theo’s closed blinds.

He doesn’t say anything.

He _does_ , however, have to drop a hand to his own hard cock—still trapped in his jeans—when Theo finally finishes sliding his fingers down, and starts unbuttoning and unzipping Liam’s jeans. Liam bucks up against him with a sharp cry, his mouth briefly leaving Theo’s, but Theo just follows him, soothing him quietly as he slides his fingers inside the now bared ‘V’ of Liam’s jeans, and into his boxers, and clearly wrapping around Liam’s hard cock.

“Oh. _Oh_ , Theo, jesus,” Liam gasps, beginning to rock up against Theo’s hand as Theo clearly starts to stroke.

“Yeah?” Theo just replies softly, his eyes _fixed_ on Liam’s face, his free arm wrapping low around Liam’s waist to hold him steady; to hold him _to_ Theo, clearly pressed up as close as he can get to Liam’s back.

It’s pretty much the polar opposite of what Brett had had planned— _Theo_ taking _Liam_ apart, rather than the other way around—but Brett has no plans to stop it. On the contrary he’s a little desperate for it to keep _going_. He wants to see their faces— _both_ of their faces—when Theo makes Liam come for the first time; wants to see all their cracked-open _whatever_ spill out between them as the last of their barriers come crashing down.

And Theo clearly wants that, too, or something similar; his hand starts to move faster, and he finally rips himself away from Liam’s panting mouth to hook his chin _hard_ over Liam’s shoulder, and look down at the clear outline of his hand moving around Liam’s cock beneath Liam’s boxers.

It’s _Liam_ who’s apparently still fixated on his and Brett’s deal; he reaches down on a broken, already reluctant-sounding moan, and stills Theo’s hand. Theo jolts and jerks to look at him, and Liam’s eyes are heavy-lidded and his breath is _panting_ against Theo’s lips even as he somehow pulls himself together enough to say, “Wa-wait. I still, I still want—”

He flicks a look at Brett. Brett _grins_.

“You heard him, Raeken,” he tells Theo, his grin becoming a smirk as he looks at Theo in turn.

And Theo—Theo just groans, and slides his fingers free of Liam’s jeans as he falls back onto his elbows. Liam moans at the loss, and as resolute as he’d seemed when he’d reached down and grabbed Theo’s hand, he still twists around now and winds up _covering_ Theo’s body with his own as he all but lays down on top of Theo as he kisses him, harsh and hard and desperate. 

_That’ll work_ , Brett thinks, looking at Liam slotted in between Theo’s legs, and then he moves forward, so that he’s kneeling between _Liam’s_ spread knees, the front of his hips pressed up against Liam’s ass. 

Liam jolts and twists around to look at him. Brett just grins. “Don’t worry, Dunbar,” he assures him. “This is me keeping our deal.” He crooks another finger at Liam, and Liam instantly _gets it_ , sitting up so that his back is pressed to Brett’s chest.

Brett’s grin softens as Liam looks over his own shoulder at Brett, clearly waiting for instruction, and he _has_ to kiss Liam again, then; can’t stop himself. Liam just moans and presses forward into it, not only opening his mouth for Brett’s tongue but stroking his own between Brett’s lips, and Brett realizes almost _instantly_ what he’s trying to do; he moans in turn, and lets Liam pass the taste of Theo from his lips and tongue and mouth to Brett’s.

But he rips himself away, eventually; has to. “Okay, alright,” he announces, like he isn’t panting, and giving these helpless little rolls of his hips up against Liam’s ass in front of him. “First things first.”

He gets Liam to help Theo work his sweats and briefs down his hips as Brett goes hunting for the little bottle of lube that Theo had dropped somewhere on the mattress. He finds it just as Liam finishes pulling Theo’s sweats and briefs off his feet—his eyes rolling a little in the back of his skull as it drives Liam’s ass _hard_ against Brett’s cock—and then he settles back on his heels with it in hand, his own knees spread wide to accommodate Liam between them.

Still, he has to hook his chin back over Liam’s shoulder as he looks down at Theo now naked and spread-out before them, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach and his legs spread on either side of Liam’s—and Brett’s—knees, the backs of his thighs just slightly raised to rest on the front of Liam’s. 

His eyes lock with Theo’s as Brett continues his long, slow glance along his body, and he can’t help it as his expression softens, and his lips quirk slightly. Theo blinks a little, clearly taken aback, and then he—gives Brett just as small, and just as soft, a smile back.

And then his eyes flicker down to where Liam and Brett are pressed together—at where Liam’s hips are giving these helpless, impatient little jerks—and his breath catches. Brett’s grin goes sharp again.

“Hey, Liam,” he murmurs, turning his head so that he’s speaking it directly into Liam’s ear, but keeping his eyes locked with Theo’s. Liam gives an inquisitive little hum—he’s still looking at Theo, too—and turns his head slightly, and Brett noses at the shell of his ear, and then briefly catches the lobe between his lips, and then his teeth, and _bites_. “Give me your hand.” 

But Liam just jolts, and twists around to look at him, eyes wide. “Oh, you. I thought—” he stammers, looking a little panicked, and Brett’s confused until he isn’t; he presses his forehead to Liam’s temple as he shakes his head, slightly.

“Nah,” he breathes into Liam’s ear positioned right next to his mouth. “This is a learn-by-doing exercise.” He pulls back to check on Liam’s reaction but it’s almost unnecessary; Liam _jerks_ against him, but his eyes are still anxious when Brett catches them. Brett’s expression softens. “Hey,” he says, reaching up to hold Liam’s face between his hands. “Hey, it’s okay,” he promises. “I’m going to walk you through it.”

He pulls back again to look at Liam, searching his face; waiting. If Liam really is too worried about hurting Theo, or screwing something up—and that’s _clearly_ the anxiety that’s winching his spine tight—to try, it’s not like it’ll be an actual _hardship_ for Brett to open Theo up, or _take him apart_ while Liam watches, but. 

But Liam’s expression suddenly tightens; goes resolute. He offers out his hand like he and Brett are sealing some kind of pact.

Brett forces himself not to laugh—oddly charmed—and reaches forward with the little lube bottle in hand, and gets it uncapped, and tipped over Liam’s fingers.

“One first,” he tells Liam as he takes the bottle back, and flips the cap closed again. Liam stares at him a little longer, and then he—bites his lip, and rubs his now-wet fingers together to spread the lube, and turns back to Theo still lying on his back and staring avidly up at them.

Except then his expression spasms with surprise, goes softer, when Liam suddenly—unexpectedly—looks down at him, and drops a gentle hand—his thumb sweeping carefully back and forth—on Theo’s lower stomach, and asks, “Ready?”

It takes Theo a second to reply. “Yeah,” he finally manages to croak. “Yeah, Liam. I’m ready.”

Brett leans forward when Liam does. He lets Liam take his time as Liam keeps that hand braced on Theo’s stomach and carefully— _carefully_ —starts sliding his fingers down, following the curve of Theo’s ass, and instead Brett focuses on taking gentle hold of one Theo’s legs, just below the knee, and encouraging it wider; encouraging it up. It tilts Theo’s hips up more towards Liam as Theo follows the pressure of Brett’s guiding hand, and Theo _moans_ when it leads to Liam’s fingers finally making contact with the rim of his ass.

“Shit,” Theo pants out. “ _Jesus_.” His head arcs back.

But Liam pauses, then, and bites his lip as he glances back at Brett over his own shoulder. Brett just smiles at him, soft and encouraging, and brings his own hand forward to layer it over Liam’s own. He doesn’t press forward—doesn’t make Liam move before he’s ready to—but he steadies him.

“He’ll tell you, if something’s off,” he promises Liam quietly. “You know Theo. When has he ever been able to resist an opportunity to run his mouth?”

“Hey, asshole,” Theo protests, and kicks a foot out at Brett, catching him not-quite-lightly in the ribs. Brett laughs even as he’s grimacing.

But the byplay seems to help Liam. He sucks in a deep breath—which Brett pretends he can’t feel and Theo pretends he can’t see—and then refocuses on Theo, his hand on Theo’s stomach bracing harder and his hand at Theo’s rim pressing forward, and forward, as he slides one finger carefully inside. 

Brett’s prepped Theo before. He’s _been_ prepped before. So he knows for a _fact_ that Liam’s single finger can’t be registering as much pressure at all, but Theo still arches back, his hips rolling further up and his hands slapping down to _clutch_ at the sheets, as Liam finishes sliding his finger the rest of the way in, up to the last knuckle. 

Brett—is pretty sure he gets it. He doesn’t blame Theo in the slightest.

Instead he leans forward, and starts murmuring Liam’s ear. “Out, and in. Just like that,” he instructs, watching Liam’s finger move as Liam does as ordered. He has to drop a hand to the side of Liam’s hip as he does, _holding_ Liam to him as he grinds helplessly forward. As focused as Liam is on Theo, he still grinds _back_ , and Brett has to stop, and bury his face in the back of Liam’s neck at one point, a little overwhelmed.

But soon enough Theo’s hips start rocking up against Liam’s hand, and Brett knows he’s ready for a second finger. 

“Alright, Liam,” he murmurs, bringing one hand up to smooth Liam’s hair—which had escaped out from behind his ears—back behind his face. “Two, now, okay?”

“Okay,” Liam agrees, this breathy little sound, and then he starts to lean back. Brett anticipates his goal and finds the bottle of lube again, uncapping it and holding it out so that he can pour it over Liam’s fingers when Liam offers them again. “Okay,” Liam repeats, more firmly, once he’s rubbed his fingers together again to spread the wetness, and then he positions them back at Theo’s entrance.

Liam doesn’t need encouragement, or reassurance this time. He starts sliding his two wet fingers slowly inside, and he keeps going, steady, steady, even as Theo is arching up and hissing out, “Je _suuus_ ,” long and drawn-out, and Brett’s almost a little confused until he sees the focused look on Liam’s face, and the angle of his slightly cocked head, and realizes that Liam’s _listening_. He’s listening to Theo’s breath or his pulse or both, and using them as feedback clues as he starts to move his two fingers, in and out, faster.

Theo gives him all the feedback he could want.

Brett had _known_ Theo was responsive. He’d reveled in it when they’d fucked, drawing out as much and as varied sounds as he could; making him writhe, and buck, or arch, and groan. Theo does all that and _more_ , these helpless little whines escaping his throat, and his breathing streaming harsh from his nose as he rocks up against Liam’s hand, one of his feet curving around the edge of one of Liam’s hips as he uses the leverage to push back even harder.

Brett has to bite off his own whine. He has to grind forward harder against Liam, who grinds back just as hard against _him_.

“Three,” Brett finally gasps. He gets the bottle ready so that he’s waiting when Liam reaches back—so very _careful_ —and then he drops it again to watch as Liam returns his now three slicked fingers to Theo’s entrance, and presses forward _again_.

The stretch must really be something, or Theo’s already overwhelmed, or both, because Theo gives a shaky, breathy moan and _shudders_. He must clench up—Brett can see and feel Liam pause—but he relaxes again almost instantly, his breathing gone forcefully even; too controlled.

Liam makes a soft, surprised noise—just this little _huh_ —as he watches, and Brett can practically see him running through the same set of calculations. Theo’s obvious experience. Theo’s former life as a Dread Doctor spy. Liam’s next breath is a little uneven, and he glances back at Brett; Brett grimaces, soft and apologetic, and Liam’s face falls. 

His hand still braced on Theo’s stomach strokes a little harder; a little more comforting.

It’s Theo who eventually forces them to the next step, Brett’s grand claims about showing Liam how to take Theo apart notwithstanding. His foot leaves Liam’s hip and lands on the inside of his forearm, and he _pushes_ , forcing Liam’s fingers to slide free of his body as he does.

“ _Okay_ ,” he says pointedly, when both Liam and Brett jerk to look at him. 

But Liam still looks back at Brett for confirmation. Brett grins—ignoring Theo’s frustrated groan—and nods. 

Liam’s still wearing his jeans. They obviously present a bit of a logistical issue and so Brett leans back, and sideways, to give him the room he needs to flop—not particularly gracefully, but so very particularly _himself_ —onto his back, and start wrestling them down. Almost by reflex Brett happens to glance at Theo as Liam’s muttering and cursing to himself as he fights an apparently difficult battle against his jeans, and finds Theo already looking back, a strange expression already on his face. Brett sits up, and reaches for him; _has_ to reach for him.

He kisses Theo, _hard_. “Been waiting a long time for this, huh?” He murmurs, pulling back and searching Theo’s eyes.

The expression on Theo’s face just goes a little dull, a little—something. “Can’t wait for something you were sure you were never going to get,” he counters, and quietly enough that Liam—still wrestling with his jeans—might not hear him. Brett stares at him, mouth dropping slightly open.

And then Liam emerges victorious from his fight with his jeans, now naked, and sits up with a literal cry of victory. Both Brett and Theo jerk to look at him, first in surprise and then in amusement, and the moment breaks in the best way possible; it breaks, and crumbles, and seems to disappear in the face of Liam’s easy, unselfconscious posture; his eager, affectionate smile as he looks at Brett and Theo, and waits.

Brett just grins back. “Ah, well,” he says, looking back down at Theo. “I’ve got a deal to keep, so,” he pushes back even as Theo is squawking in indignation and reaching out a hand to smack him, circling around to press himself back up against Liam’s now fully naked back, and thighs. He shudders at the first brush of skin-on-skin.

Liam leans back into him, his breath already coming fast and shallow. “I have to warn you,” he says, low like a secret even though Theo can _definitely_ hear them, “I have no idea how long I’m going to be able to last.”

Brett just grins, and presses that grin against Liam’s jaw. “I guarantee you that’s a shared problem,” he answers.

And then he reaches down, and finds the little lube bottle, and gets his _own_ hand wet before reaching for Liam’s cock, and getting him slick, and ready. Liam _moans_.

“Alright,” Brett murmurs, nudging him forward. “You’re good,” he promises. “You’re ready. _He’s_ ready.”

“Okay,” Liam pants, apparently willing to take his word for it.

He lets himself fall forward onto his hands, his palms landing on the mattress on either side of Theo’s head. 

“Hi,” he says, when he looks down at Theo already looking up at him, and then he leans down and kisses him; Theo leans up to meet him.

And then he reaches down, and—sucking in a huge, bracing breath that causes Brett to smile a little, again so oddly _charmed_ —takes himself in hand, and gets himself positioned at Theo’s entrance. But then he pauses.

“You will tell me,” he double-checks, “if I—if I do something wrong, or—”

Theo just smiles softly at him, and brings his hands up to cradle Liam’s face. “On whatever honor I’ve actually got,” he agrees, and for all that his words are snarky, his tone isn’t; he’s _promising_. Brett feels something in his chest clench.

“Okay,” Liam agrees, soft and just as solemn.

And then he starts to press forward.

_**Liam** _

Liam has—no idea what he’s doing.

He’s damn lucky the mechanics are essentially the same as the type of sex he’s used to, because he can barely _think_ past the tight, hot clench of Theo’s body, and no matter Brett’s and Theo’s apparent confidence, he’s still _terrified_ of accidentally hurting Theo. _Holy shit_ , he just keeps thinking as he presses further and further forward, absently grateful for it when Brett follows him; Brett’s so fucking— _absurdly_ tall that he manages to all but _fold_ around Liam, and the weight of his presence is—

Nice. It’s nice, or something.

It makes Liam feel less like he’s going to fly out of his skin, because there’s a part of him that _still_ really can’t believe this is happening. That’s convinced that everything since he woke up has been some really, really strange fever dream brought on by the stress of Theo nearly dying _again_ ; _what are you doing, being the bait_. But he’s _equally_ sure there’s no _way_ it’s a dream, because he’s not this talented of a person; he’d never have been able to imagine Theo’s heat, or his hot, heady scent, or the way that he brings one hand up to clutch _hard_ at Liam’s shoulder, the other clutching just as hard around Liam’s ribs.

“Holy—holy shit,” Theo breathes, sounding like it’d been _punched_ out of him, and his legs still spread wide around Liam’s hips—around Liam’s _and_ Brett’s hips—spasm, like he’d wanted to bring them up, wrap them around Liam. _That,_ Liam thinks feverishly, _some day that_ , and then he shuts the thought down before he can think past _tonight_ , past _now._

“Good?” Liam stammers, just as breathy, because he’s pressed forward as far as he can; he can feel the backs of Theo’s thighs trembling against his own. 

“Yeah,” Theo agrees drunkenly. “Oh god, yeah.” He reaches up and gets his hand tangled in Liam’s hair, and _yanks_ him down into a kiss.

It causes Liam to shift inside him, and they _both_ moan. They _all_ moan, actually; Brett does, too. And Liam can’t help it; he flails a hand back until he hits Brett’s side, his hip. _He’s still wearing his jeans_ , he thinks nonsensically, and then he _grips_ ; wanting the connection. 

Brett drops his hand over Liam’s own, and squeezes. Liam has to shut his eyes tight against the sudden swell of—of _something_ he feels, and kisses Theo harder; holds onto Brett tighter.

It’s Theo who breaks away again. “Okay,” he gasps out, his mouth still red, and wet, from Liam’s own. Liam can’t help staring at it, and apparently Theo notices, because he leans up and kisses him again. But he pulls back fast. “ _Okay_ , Liam, you have to—”

He never finishes his sentence but he doesn’t need to, because what he _does_ is roll his hips, fucking _himself_ on Liam’s cock. “Jesus _christ_ ,” Liam squeaks, and can’t really find it in himself to be embarrassed, because _jesus christ_. Theo does it _again_ before Liam can pull his wits back together, which of course just immediately _scatters_ them again, and Liam makes another high-pitched whine in the back of his throat and just tries to hold on, unable to do much else with the constant starbursts exploding behind his eyelids.

And then Brett leans further over him, and gets his hands on Theo’s hips, and _pins_ _them_ down, stilling them. “That,” he says, and when Liam glances, glaze-eyed and panting, over at him, he’s staring at Theo with a little smirk on his face, “is enough of that.”

In terms of strict physical abilities Liam is probably stronger than Theo, but Theo’s always been _craftier_ ; has always made up for it in other ways. But spread out underneath both Liam and Brett and with Brett—who Liam more often than not forgets is a goddamn _alpha_ , now—holding his hips still, there’s nowhere for Theo to _go_ , nothing for him to _do_ , but try, and apparently fail, to fight up against Brett’s restraining hands. 

Liam would have expected it to annoy him, maybe. In the more anxious corner of his brain he would maybe even have expected it to _scare_ him, honestly; being trapped. But as Brett holds him still he doesn’t look irritated, or terrified. He doesn’t smell that way, either. Liam watches Theo’s wide eyes, and the way his chest rises and falls with his short, shallow breaths, and he breathes in Theo’s scent, which is _saturated_ with heat, and arousal, and he moans, low and helpless.

Brett glances over at him at the sound. “Told you,” he says, soft and smug. “ _Told you_ I’d show you how to take him apart.” 

And then he shifts, some, leaving one hand on Theo’s hip to keep it pinned, and the other he uses to grip Liam’s hand, and drag it down to replace his own. He _presses_ down on Liam’s hand after he’s set it down, pressing it into Theo’s hip and therefore Theo’s hip into the mattress. Theo lets out a shocky, bitten-off sound, and bucks.

Or tries to, anyway, but he can’t get any leverage, not with Brett and Liam still holding him down, one of their hands on each of his hips. But he’s _Theo_ , and never one to give up without at least _trying_ for the last word, and so he starts to lift up on his elbows, his mouth already opening to no doubt say something smart.

And so Liam—before he’s even really _thought_ about it, and surprising not only himself but Brett, apparently, and Theo, too—snaps up his free hand, and _plants it_ in the middle of Theo’s chest, forcing him back flat. Theo’s back hits the mattress and he lets out a surprised little _oof_ , his eyes going _wide_ as he stares up at Liam. 

Liam stares just as wide-eyed back at him.

But behind him, Brett just laughs low and under his breath and says, “Okay, then. Student surpassing the teacher, clearly.” He grins when Liam twists around, good-natured and easy.

Liam grins back.

But he’s still got his hand planted in the middle of Theo’s chest. He’s still got his other hand wrapped around Theo’s hip, holding them still. And he’s still, at the end of the day, very, very hard. He fixes his eyes back on Theo’s, and his grin softens.

“Okay,” he tells Theo, like he was finally picking up his and Theo’s earlier conversation: Theo demanding _okay, Liam, you have to_. He leans a little harder against his palm braced against Theo’s chest—can’t get over how he can feel Theo _breathing_ underneath his fingers, Liam’s whole body _rocking_ with Theo’s short, sharp breaths—and says again, “Okay.”

And then, with Brett behind him and Theo in front of him, he starts to move.

Slow at first, and then a little faster, a little deeper, as his first tentative thrusts cause Theo to _moan_ , and try to arch up against Liam’s pinning hands. Liam has to close his eyes against the rush of pleasure that goes bolting up, and then back _down_ , his spine, and starts twisting itself tighter and tighter in his gut; has to drop down from bracing himself on Theo’s chest on a palm, to a forearm. 

Theo doesn’t complain, just moans again.

“Ah, god, christ,” Liam pants out, his hips _snapping_ now, his face buried in his forearm and his breath skating across Theo’s chest. And then Theo’s skin is _right there_ , so he bites it, pulling it between his teeth and worrying it as he tries to think past the heat and clutch of Theo’s body and his own pistoning hips to try and keep up some kind of rhythm. 

But the angle’s wrong, he eventually realizes. It’s not _bad_ , it’s just wrong; it just means he can’t get as deep as he wants to. 

He’s about to let it go—it’s by no means a _dealbreaker_ —but Brett must be some kind of fucking mind-reader, because he suddenly wraps an arm around Liam’s hips, stilling them. “Hold up,” he murmurs, soothing the confused whine of a protest that Liam gives—and more of a _snarl_ of a protest that _Theo_ gives—and slowly encourages Liam back. “Trust me,” he tells Liam quietly, when Liam hesitates.

And Liam does, so he goes.

“What the fuck, Talbot?” Theo complains, but Brett just absently snarls at him— _truly_ absently; he’s not even _looking_ at Theo—and gets his hands on Theo’s hips, and suddenly _hauls_ them forward, and then rolls them further up. 

Theo shuts up _fast_ , after that. Liam chokes a little, pretty sure that he’d just swallowed his own tongue.

Brett just grins, and puts a gentle but _firm_ hand on Liam’s lower back. “Lean over him,” he instructs quietly, “on your knees.”

The physics of what Brett’s suggesting don’t make _any_ sense to Liam, until abruptly they do. “Oh,” he breathes. Oh, _christ_ : he’s not entirely sure he’s going to survive this encounter. But he scrambles forward regardless, and then very carefully starts to lean over as instructed. At first he gets both hands braced by Theo’s head, and he’s about to reach down to position himself back at Theo’s entrance, when Brett suddenly nudges his arm back into place, and reaches down himself. 

Liam’s eyelashes _flutter_ when he feels Brett take hold of him.

But he manages to keep it together, and press forward when Brett gets him lined up. He slips easily back inside Theo, down and _down_ , and Liam _groans_ as he bottoms out, because Brett had been _right;_ the angle is so much better. He has to drop immediately down to his elbows. It leaves his mouth hovering right about Theo’s.

“Hi,” he breathes, aware that he sounds like a total dork, but it’s worth it for the way that Theo’s eyes crinkle up, his mouth stretching wide with a grin. 

“Hey,” he greets back, and then he darts up and kisses Liam.

He’d maybe meant it as a fast thing, a bit of punctuation, but Liam just follows him back down, and starts to _move_ again, as he kisses him. Almost immediately the pleasure already twisted-up tight at the base of his spine ratchets too high, and too _much_ for him to keep managing it, and soon he has to bury his face in Theo’s neck as he concentrates on the rhythm of his hips; on _fucking_ him.

He’s not going to last. He knows it _instantly_ —had known it earlier, too, when he’d warned Brett—and he gasps out, “Theo,” now; a warning. 

Theo just groans and lifts the arm he’d wrapped around Liam’s shoulders to wrap around the back of his skull instead, holding Liam’s head to his shoulder as he—as he drops his other hand down, and starts jerking himself off.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Liam whines, high and breathy, and that’s _it_ ; he comes.

Even as he’s gasping and groaning and pressing his hips as flush against Theo’s as he can, his mind just one whited-out blur of pleasure, he can _feel it_ when Theo comes, too. He goes vice-tight around Liam and _arches_ , his knees clenching _hard_ around Liam’s ribs, and through the roaring in his own ears Liam can hear him give a long, rising cry. 

When Liam comes fully back to himself, he’s slumped on top of Theo. Literally _slumped;_ he isn’t supporting any of his own weight. “Sorry!” He starts to yelp, rearing up, but Theo just catches him, loose-limbed and laughing, and encourages him back down.

“Easy, tiger,” he murmurs against Liam’s cheek. “You just rode me pretty hard, there.”

Theo’s _definitely_ being an asshole, and trying to make Liam blush. Of course that doesn’t stop it from _working_ , and Liam grumbles a protest and buries his flushed face in Theo’s neck. 

He also jolts in surprise when Theo puts a steadying hand on his side, and holds Liam’s hips steady as he slowly, slowly encourages Liam up, until Liam’s softening cock slips out of him, and he can relax back fully flat. Liam understands, instantly, and flops deliberately back flat himself for the way it makes Theo _oof_. 

“Ass,” Theo complains, but he’s laughing. Liam just grins at him, and then he suddenly—remembers, and jerks, and looks up, and around.

Brett’s sitting on his heels, smirking at them. Liam gets the feeling that there may have been a different expression on his face in the split-second before Liam turned around, but there’s no way to tell what it was. So Liam just grins, and pushes himself laboriously up, until he can fall back on his heels, too. 

He wobbles when he lands. It isn’t intentional but he’s willing to pretend it was for the way it makes Brett immediately reach to steady him, his hands big and warm and grasping at Liam’s arm, his side. Liam grins up at him, eyes a little hooded.

“Gotta say,” he comments, tongue firmly in his cheek, “excellent teaching. A++, would let you show me how to take Theo apart again anytime.”

Brett stares at him for a second, two, looking completely poleaxed, and then he _laughs_. 

He laughs hard enough that he has to double over, one hand left in the middle of Liam’s back and the other landing partway up on his knee to brace himself. The sound of it fills the room, ringing clear, and Liam finds himself grinning, and then starting to laugh, too, and when he glances over at Theo, Theo’s in the same shape; watching them through crinkled eyes and shaking with silent laughter.

“God, Dunbar,” Brett finally manages, still laughing. “I really—do not know what to do with you, most times.”

It’s a throwaway comment, but it also—isn’t. Liam sobers some, and looks at Brett. Really _looks_ at him. He’s grinning and loose-limbed and easy, but he’s also still wearing his _jeans_ , and beyond some really hot— _really_ hot—kisses, and a handful of touches— _really_ hot touches—he’s sort of…left Theo and Liam to focus on each other. Even his active participation had been directed at—at helping _Liam_ take _Theo_ apart, or whatever. 

_He loves you_ , Brett had told Liam earlier, right after he’d tried to apologize for apparently giving enough of a shit about Theo that he’d faced down three heavily-armed, expert hunters to save Theo’s life.

And it’s _that_ , Liam thinks. It’s that—twisting, squirming bundle of knowledge and memory and the way Brett had looked when he’d been looking at Theo throughout the night, that causes Liam’s mouth to drop open and him to reply, “Well, I mean. I hope you can think of _some_ things you’d like to do with me.”

It’s not even necessarily a _come-on_. It absolutely _sounds_ like one, because Liam can’t keep his foot out of his mouth to save his life, but what Liam _means_ is: _you’re part of this, too_. 

He means: _be part of this, too_.

Brett’s mouth drops open. He _stares_. For a moment Liam worries that he’s—fucked up somehow, gone too far—broken whatever he thought, maybe mistakenly, that he and Brett and Theo were doing here—and his anxiety starts to shoot _through the roof_. But Brett doesn’t look _angry_. He doesn’t look disgusted, or insulted, or anything else that might indicate that Liam had, once again, blown up a situation with his inability to keep his mouth shut.

He looks _scared_.

Liam feels his brow furrow, and his mouth drop softly open in confusion, and he looks back at Theo like Theo might be able to give him a reasoned explanation, because Theo always _can_. And Theo meets his eyes, but he looks just as scared suddenly as Brett does, his eyes wide and his expression raw. _He’s scared Brett’s going to say no_ , Liam realizes, in this striking moment of clarity. He looks back at Brett, and his confused frown softens.

“Hey,” Liam says, and turns around fully so that he’s facing Brett head-on. “This is,” he tries to explain. “You are—” He’s not getting anywhere. He tries looking over his shoulder again at Theo for some kind of help, but Theo just jerks and looks back, absolutely useless. Gritting his teeth, and wishing he had—a _tenth_ of Theo’s slippery charm or Scott’s genuine earnestness or even Argent’s no-nonsense certainty, Liam turns back to Brett, and finally blurts out, “All of this, this is because of _you_ , right?”

Brett’s eyes go wide, and his scent spikes with—with _guilt_. 

_I’m a fucking idiot_ , Liam thinks absently, even as he makes a high, panicked noise as his hands fly up to Brett’s face and he hurries to correct, “Oh god, _no_. Not—not like _that_. Not Theo getting hurt, or—” this he speaks over his shoulder, deliberately overloud, “—him being a raging self-sacrificing _asshole_ …” 

He trails off—ignoring Theo’s scalded-cat complaint—and searches Brett’s eyes. 

“I mean _this_ , right now. Us—us _figuring_ ,” he pauses, and swallows around a dry throat, “things out.” He tries to smile, and manages a wobbly kind of something, as he adds, “I mean, math isn’t exactly my strong suit, but by my calculations you’re at least a _third_ responsible for—for all of this.”

 _Which I—hope you don’t already regret_ , Liam realizes with a jolt, anxiety curling itself up tight at the base of his throat. 

Brett doesn’t say anything. He _hadn’t_ said anything, and he continues to not say anything, and Liam feels that anxiety start _uncurling_ itself, and wrapping itself strangling-tight around his vocal cords, _squeezing_ his throat. _Fuck_ , Liam thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fu_ —

He’d started lifting his hands away from Brett’s face, because _fuck_ , but all of the sudden Brett’s hands snap up, and stop Liam’s retreat. Brett _still_ doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Liam’s, searching and searching and _searching_. 

Liam has—no idea what he’s looking for.

And then from behind them—Liam jolting because he’d gotten a little focused on the immediate issue at hand—Theo suddenly croaks, “Jesus, Talbot—” a deliberate echo of the words Brett had used earlier, “—if you’re not going to kiss him, I sure as hell will.”

This time it’s Brett who jolts, looking past Liam—his hands still wrapped carefully, but firmly, around Liam’s wrists—to stare at Theo. Liam could turn to look, too, but he—trusts Theo, and he—wants to stay focused on Brett, for right now. He waits. 

It takes a long, few, dragging seconds, but eventually Brett looks back. He looks back, and then he swallows, and then he—leans forward, and kisses Liam.

It’s a hard kiss at first, close-mouthed and firm, and with Brett’s hands transitioning from holding Liam’s wrists to holding his face, and holding it _tight_. There’s something a little desperate in it—something a little terrified—but Liam just holds on, and kisses back, yielding easily to the pressure of Brett’s hands and Brett’s mouth and the slow leak of Brett’s alpha _whatever_ , like he’d been trying desperately to keep it reigned in and now he _can’t_.

But he softens the kiss, eventually, after he realizes that Liam isn’t fighting him and isn’t _going_ to fight him, or Theo isn’t going to tell him to stop, or whatever. Liam can actually _feel_ Brettrelax, some, and he slumps a little in Brett’s hold, and opens his mouth gratefully when Brett touches his tongue to Liam’s lips, looking for entry. 

Of course, Brett doesn’t _stay_ relaxed for long. He gets his hands on Liam’s hips, suddenly, dropping them away from his face, and _hauls_ Liam into his lap, his hands on the back of Liam’s thighs and spreading them wide around his own knees. Liam gasps, startled but _more than_ happy to go along for the ride, and then he gasps _again_ when he feels Brett’s hard cock grind up against his ass.

 _Oh, he must have been hard this whole time_ , Liam realizes with a jolt. God, he has to be _aching_. Liam groans and presses forward harder into him, and grinds _down_.

Brett cries out, and rips his mouth away from Liam’s to pant against his shoulder. “Jesus,” he manages. “Jesus _chr—_ ” But he doesn’t bother to finish the curse, just leans back up and takes Liam’s mouth again. 

He pulls back again a few seconds later.

Liam does his best to look at him, though it’s hard to think past the haze of pleasure once again clouding his mind. His cock is getting hard again; he can feel it. But he blinks, and forces himself to focus, meeting Brett’s eyes as Brett brings a hand up and strokes it down his face, thumbing at his cheekbone, the curve of his lip. He leans in to kiss Liam again, quick but firm.

“What do you want?” He whispers against Liam’s lips. “Tell me—tell me what you want.”

And Liam—immediately knows the answer to that question, and he _flushes_. A wide, helpless smile instantly breaks over Brett’s face as he spots it—and probably _scents_ it, too, the bastard—and his eyes rove over Liam’s face, searching it. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, you _definitely_ have to tell me what you just thought of.” Something crosses his face, and he glances over his shoulder before looking back, his smile a little softer. “Have to tell _us_ what you just thought of,” he corrects, and smiles wider when Liam jerks and looks at him, surprised but—but with something warm, and bright, uncurling in his chest.

But that still leaves: “Um,” Liam stammers, _flushing_ again. “Um, well.”

It doesn’t help that Brett’s grin goes a little wicked again, and he drops his mouth to Liam’s neck to start nosing at it, his lips brushing just _barely_ over the sensitive skin there before he opens his lips and _bites_. Liam gasps, and jolts, and then jolts _again_ , when he feels Brett’s still-covered cock grind against his ass, before he finally buries his face in the side of _Brett’s_ neck.

“C’mon, Liam,” Brett murmurs, deliberately speaking it close so that his breath skates over Liam’s skin and Liam _feels_ every syllable as its own individual _drag_ of sensation. “Tell us.”

Liam just burrows a little further into his neck, and hesitates, and then mumbles, “Well. Well you um, you seemed pretty good at taking people apart, so.” Liam feels his face _flame_.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Brett _laughs_ , loud and breathy and surprised. He also winds the fingers of one hand in Liam’s hair, and pulls Liam’s head off his shoulder so that he can look Liam in the eye, search his face. 

“Oh,” he finally says, another of those wicked grins breaking over his face, “Oh, I’d be _happy_ to,” he murmurs. But then his grin wobbles, and becomes a little more hesitant. He bites his lip, and Liam has to shove down a sudden surge of panic as he wonders, _what?_ “It’s just—” 

He looks over Liam’s shoulder. He looks at _Theo_.

 _I thought we’d figured this out_ , Liam thinks, confused, but then Theo suddenly goes, _ah_ , and fills in quietly, “It’s just that sleeping with an alpha has consequences.”

Liam twists around to look over his shoulder at Theo, his brow furrowing _deep_. Theo just quirks an apologetic smile back, and jerks his chin some towards—towards Brett. _Ask him_ , that little jerk means. Liam bites his lip, and turns back to Brett.

Brett looks back, but it’s from under a ducked brow. Of course, he’s still fucking _taller_ than Liam even with Liam sitting in his lap, and Brett’s tipped down head, and Liam has to fight down the dry expression he instantly wants to give life to, and instead focus on the part of the situation that actually matters. He bites his own lip, and waits.

Brett catches him looking, and grimaces. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t even really know what _it_ is, it’s just.” He sighs, suddenly, and reaches for one of Liam’s hands, and brings it up to press against the back of his own skull, right at the base. “Here,” he explains. “It’s—it’s this awareness that lives _here_ , and it’s.” His eyes flick to Theo’s. “Before, originally, I could only sense Lori. But after the first time Theo and I,” he cuts off, shooting Liam a quick look. He swallows, after, and continues. “Anyway. After, I could—sense him, too.”

He bites his lip again, and flicks his eyes back over Liam’s shoulder to Theo. There’s something a little apologetic in the look.

But Liam—he’s in the middle of a revelation. He’s _realizing things_. He stares at Brett. “That’s how you,” he breathes slowly. “Earlier, when he first got hurt, that’s how you _knew_.” Brett jerks to look at him, and then nods, after a second. Liam’s eyes flick over his face, fascinated. “That’s amazing,” he whispers, more than a little awed.

Brett blinks, clearly taken aback. He studies Liam for a second, his eyes narrowing, but it doesn’t take him long to realize that Liam’s not bullshitting him, or whatever. He smiles, more than a little helplessly. Liam can practically see what he’s thinking: _I really do not know what to do with you, most times._ But then he pulls his lip between his teeth again.

“Yeah, well. Whatever it is, I don’t know how it’ll react to, ah,” he pauses, and touches his tongue to his bottom lip, his eyes dropping to Liam’s mouth before he drags them back up to Liam’s eyes, “ _taking apart_ another alpha’s beta.” He gives a little shrug, after, quick and apologetic.

Liam just sucks his teeth, considering. And then he grins, and darts forward to kiss Brett in turn, fast and hard. He pulls back.

“Well,” he announces, meeting Brett’s shocked look. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

_**Theo** _

The thing that makes Liam, _Liam_ , is that immediately after he says something that suave, he starts to panic.

“I-I mean!” He stammers, and Theo can’t see his face, Liam’s back still turned to him, but he _can_ still hear Liam’s heartbeat skyrocket, “I mean, only if—if you _want to_ , clearly, if you _didn’t_ , then—”

But the other thing is that Liam—all seeming evidence to the contrary, sometimes—isn’t an idiot. He has to _know_ what he’s offering, and Theo’s sure that he does; Liam isn’t that cruel. But Brett still looks more like Liam just proposed to _deck_ him, rather than form an intimate and potentially permanent bond with him. His mouth drops open and his eyes go wide and he just _stares_.

But it’s his scent that really gives him away; it’s the same scent that Theo remembers smelling, _viscerally,_ the night that Brett had stood next to him in Theo’s kitchen and said, _you could have a pack_. 

Theo can’t help sucking in a deep, shaky breath.

Liam’s still stammering out apologies that he keeps immediately apologizing for, and propositions that he keeps qualifying, and then taking back, and qualifying again. And Theo doesn’t know what finally snaps Brett out of it—if it’s the sheer torrent of words, or something specific in the mess of them that Liam’s mumbling out, or what—but finally Brett blinks, and laughs, seemingly a little helplessly, and winds a hand in Liam’s hair.

“Dunbar,” he finally interrupts, then: “Liam.” He waits just long for Liam to cease rambling before he says, “Shut up,” still laughing, and kisses him.

Theo can hear Liam moan into the kiss. He can see it, too; the way that it shudders down Liam’s spine, and sends the sides of his waist to filling, and retracting, as he breathes in short, and shallow, in between Brett’s kisses. 

And then Brett opens his eyes, and meets Theo’s over Liam’s shoulder, and _grins_. He tips his chin, clearly an instruction, and Theo doesn’t get it until he does. Then it’s _his_ turn to grin as he rolls upwards, and snags a pillow as he repositions himself so that he’s half-sitting up against the wall—they’d pushed the mattress up against it when they’d moved the mattress to the floor, since that was the only way it was going to fit—with the pillow at his back. He smirks at Brett when he’s settled.

Brett smirks back, and then drops an arm below Liam’s ass, and just lifts him straight up.

“What the _fu—_ ” Liam starts to squawk, scrabbling to hang onto Brett’s shoulders as Brett knee-walks forward the last few feet between him and Theo, and then sets Liam down in the cradle of Theo’s legs. 

He’d probably meant to set Liam down gracefully, but when it comes to these kinds of things Liam is his own worst enemy; he flails enough as Brett releases him that he ends up clumsily sprawled in between Theo’s spread legs, the back of his head resting against one of Theo’s hips and one of his arms caught on one of Theo’s upraised knees. He glares up at Brett, when he finally comes to rest, and blows an irritated chunk of hair out of his eyes.

“That,” he accuses Brett grouchily, “was unnecessary.”

Theo just snorts a laugh, and gets his hands hooked underneath Liam’s arms. “That,” he corrects, as he hauls Liam up so that Liam is—as originally intended—laid back against Theo’s chest, his hips rolled slightly upwards, “was graceful.”

“Ah, fuck _you_ ,” Liam complains, twisting his head around to glare at Theo instead. Theo just grins, and kisses him.

He looks up when he feels the mattress shift, and gets caught staring at the sight of Brett on his back, working his jeans and briefs down his hips. And he’s not the only one; he can see Liam staring, open-mouthed, out of the corner of his eye. 

“God damn,” Liam breathes, the last part coming out a little squeaky, and Theo has to resist the urge to laugh. 

He puts a hand on Liam’s chin instead, and twists Liam’s face back upwards so he can kiss him again. “This part, I’ll walk you through,” he murmurs against Liam’s lips, and smirks against Liam’s mouth when Liam jolts, and moans. 

The mattress shifts again, and when Theo—and Liam—both look back over, Brett is back on his knees, and he has the earlier-discarded bottle of lube in hand. He crawls forward until he’s kneeling in the middle of not only Liam’s spread legs, but Theo’s, too. Theo can feel it against his chest when Liam swallows. Theo had slid his hands around Liam’s chest, and waist, after he’d hauled him up. He uses them now to stroke across Liam’s hip and ribs, slow and soothing.

He looks up when Brett’s eyes flick to his. 

“You two,” Liam says after a second, “are definitely having some creepy, wordless conversation about me up there.”

Brett frowns and glances down at him. “Where exactly did the _creepy_ part come from?”

“ _Creepy_ ,” Liam just insists, without providing any additional context, but that’s actually probably the right call; Brett just rolls his eyes, and leans down—hands on either side of Theo’s hips—to kiss him. 

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far, just pauses only a few inches away and smirks softly at Liam. “Ready?” He asks quietly.

Theo can literally _feel_ Liam swallowing down the urge to repeat the word _creepy_ again, not because he actually thinks Brett is being creepy but because he’s nervous as _shit_ —Theo can feel the tension in the muscles of his back, resting taut against Theo’s chest—and he’s trying to cover it up. But he must realize Brett’s being serious—or Brett really is bleeding off alpha authority either accidentally or on purpose, and Theo’s not imagining it—because after a second Liam just nods, silent and a little jerky. 

This time when Brett leans forward and kisses him, it’s soft, and slow, and he brings one hand forward to wind into Liam’s hair, cradling the back of his skull.

It causes something in _Theo’s_ chest to clench.

Finally Brett pulls back, and this time he sits _all_ the way back, onto his heels. He’s still holding the little bottle of lube in one hand; as Theo—and Liam, Theo flattening his hand on Liam’s stomach to _feel it_ as Liam breathes, short and shallow—watch, he tips it over one hand, and gets two of his fingers liberally covered. He drops the bottle and moves back in, after, slow and careful.

Liam apparently doesn’t appreciate the kid gloves. He kicks a foot against Brett’s hip. “I’m not a spooked horse, or whatever,” he gripes.

Brett winces as Liam’s heel impacts his hipbone, and turns to give him a dry look. Liam just smiles winningly. He also uses the foot he’d kicked against Brett’s hip to wrap around it instead, trying to draw Brett closer in. Brett hesitates, flicking a look up at Theo, and then follows where Liam leads. 

Still, the first touch of one of Brett’s fingers to his rim has him tensing up _hard_. It’s a reflex, an automatic reaction, and he relaxes back down almost immediately. But it’s a _forced_ relaxation, which sort of cancels itself out, and so Theo—making the briefest of eye contact with Brett, again—shifts Liam a little higher up against his own body, deliberately jostling him a bit, and uses the hand not on Liam’s stomach to tilt his chin sideways, so Theo can kiss him again, slow and deep. 

Liam definitely knows what Theo’s doing, and Theo can feel him vacillating between being pissed off about it, and being grateful for it. Eventually he must decide on the latter, because he _surges_ up into Theo, kissing him harder and faster and _deeper_. Theo anchors his hand a little tighter around Liam’s jaw, and gives as good as he gets.

He knows the _second_ Brett starts pushing in his first finger, because no matter the distraction offered, Liam still arches up, breaking away from Theo’s mouth as he breathes, “ _Oooh,_ ” long and drawn-out. He doesn’t tense, exactly, though Theo both hears and sees one of his heels slipping against the mattress, but he twists, like he’s not sure whether he wants to get away from the pressure or not. Theo presses down with the hand he has on Liam’s stomach; not holding him down, or forcing him still, but steadying him.

“Christ,” Liam grits out. “Maybe it’s a—a lack of perspective,” he pants out, as Brett—who’s watching Liam’s face fixedly, and who flicks his eyes up at Theo at regular points—starts moving his finger around, in and out, “but _jesus_ , even your _finger_ feels fucking huge.”

“Honestly,” Theo murmurs back, and not _just_ because he’s being an asshole, “it’s probably both.”

Liam huffs a laugh against the side of his neck, and then bites off a whine as Brett _twists_ his finger. Brett smirks at Theo—can’t smirk at Liam, not with his face hidden against Theo’s jaw—and does it _again_ , and again, until Liam starts losing his self-consciousness or his nervousness or both, and starts rocking back against it. 

It isn’t long before Brett can add a second. 

“Ah!” Liam gasps, at the first press. His hands snap down to the mattress on either side of Theo’s hips, clenching in and twisting up the sheets. His heels—both of them, this time—slip a little more as he squirms, and it’s instinct more than planning that has Theo circling one of his knees in and dipping it low to catch one of Liam’s, lifting it up and pulling it _back_. Liam _freezes_ , and jerks his head back against Theo’s chest to look up at him.

“What?” Theo wonders, smirking down at him. “I’m not just here for decoration.”

Liam makes a face, and fakes a laugh, but the distraction—and the wider spread of Liam’s legs—gives Brett the opportunity to continue pressing his two slicked fingers inside, and this time when Liam arches he’s doing it _against_ Theo’s body, his head against Theo’s shoulder and his hips more fully caught in the cradle of Theo’s. 

“Ah, ah, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, but it’s a breathy gasp, no sharpness or hidden winces. His hips rock back against Brett’s hand of his own volition, driving Brett’s fingers deeper. 

“That’s it, Liam,” Brett breathes, and Theo can tell he’s started to scissor his fingers wider when Liam _keens_. “That’s it, c’mon.”

“God, god _damn_ ,” Liam grinds out, and Theo has to shudder, and clench his arms a little tighter around Liam’s waist, his upper chest, as the rolling of Liam’s hips against his own rapidly re-hardening cock makes pleasure _bolt_ up his spine. 

Liam takes a third finger with barely any additional fanfare beyond tossing his head back against Theo’s shoulder, and gasping out, “Jesus _christ_.” And Theo can’t help it; he drags the hand he’d had wrapped around Liam’s chest up, until he’s cupping Liam’s throat, just _barely_ holding his head back; keeping it where it is. 

Liam swallows, and then shudders, and Theo can feel both like they’re running through his own body.

But eventually Brett decides Liam is ready, and he slides his fingers free of Liam’s ass. Theo releases Liam’s neck as Brett starts searching around for the bottle, and Liam’s chin falls back down to his chest, his mouth open and wet as he breathes shaky and uneven, and his eyes glazed. One of his legs is still hooked over Theo’s; it jerks slightly, and Liam’s fingers tighten further in the sheets by Theo’s hips.

“I’m not, not exactly saying you two are full of shit,” Liam says, the perfect preface to the fact that he is almost _definitely_ about to say they’re full of shit, “but that looks _significantly_ bigger than three fingers.”

He’s looking at Brett’s cock hanging hard between his legs. He’s not exactly _wrong_ , but; Theo and Brett glance reflexively down to look where Liam’s looking, and then up at each other, and then they both _laugh_ , hard and helpless.

“Jesus, Liam,” Theo complains, still laughing, just as Brett gasps out, “What the _fuck_ , Dunbar.”

“I’m just _saying!_ ” Liam counters, but breathily, because Brett had finished slicking his cock and moved back in, his hands sliding under and around Liam’s thighs, starting to shift him.

It drives him back harder against Theo’s chest; Theo winds his arms back around Liam’s stomach, and shoulders, and anchors him. 

The first touch of the tip of Brett’s cock to Liam’s rim has him sucking in a harsh, sharp breath, and holding it. He tips his head back against Theo’s shoulder, too, and so it’s not hard for Theo to turn his head slightly, and nose at Liam’s cheek. “Hey,” he says quietly, just that; Liam glances over at him, and shudders loose his held breath.

He keeps his eyes locked with Theo’s as Brett starts to push forward.

“Oh,” Liam says, his eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, oh mygod, _Brett_.” His hands leave the sheet to snap back and around Theo’s sides instead, grabbing onto his hips upside-down and _squeezing_. 

“Breathe, Liam,” Theo murmurs against Liam’s cheek, Liam’s lips when Liam automatically turns his head further towards him. “You’ve gotta breathe.”

Liam sucks in one breath, and lets it shake back out, and sucks in another. It’s not the smoothest but it lets Brett finish sliding the rest of the way inside, until he’s flush with Liam’s ass; Theo can feel the front of Brett’s thighs, his knees, against the curve of his own ass, the backs of his own thighs. 

“Hey,” Brett tells Liam when he stops. He leans forward, his hands sliding from underneath Liam’s legs up, and over, landing on the tops of Liam’s thighs and holding him _down_ as he seeks out Liam’s mouth, and kisses him. Liam immediately moans and kisses him back, and intentionally or not he _twists_ as he does it; it causes him to grind back against Theo’s cock behind him and to move _around_ Brett’s cock inside him, and then they _all_ moan. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Theo hisses out, and has to bite at Liam’s shoulder as he fights back a shudder. The pressure of his teeth apparently causes Liam to buck, and then it’s Brett who’s biting off what sounds suspiciously like a whine, and leaning back, panting, to lock eyes with Liam.

“ _God_ , Liam, are you…?” He asks, and even with just their bare points of contact, Theo can _feel_ Brett trembling with restrained tension.

“Ye-yeah,” Liam gasps out, then: “I mean, _christ_ , I have no idea, but I _think_ so, so just—” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. What he _does_ , is steal Theo’s earlier move, and roll his hips to fuck _himself_ back on Brett’s cock. This time the sound Brett bites off is less a whine, and more a snarl.

His hands tighten on Liam’s hips. He starts to _move_.

Liam cries out almost immediately. One of his hands flies up from Theo’s hip to clutch at Theo’s hair, anchoring himself as he _arches_ up against Brett. His other flies to Brett’s shoulders, wrapping around Brett’s neck and _clutching_ there. Groaning, Theo holds him tighter and then spreads his leg—with Liam’s still hooked over it—wider, opening him up even more to Brett’s pistoning hips and causing Liam to cry out _again_.

“Fuck, fuck,” Liam is chanting, and Theo would feel the strong urge to make fun of him, except that he can barely _think_ past the grind of Liam’s ass—rocking with every thrust of Brett’s hips—against his own cock, trapped between his own stomach and Liam’s back. Instead he just has to groan, and bury his face in Liam’s shoulder, and hold on, best he can, as Brett—honestly seems to pull off fucking them both.

“Br-Brett, Th-Theo,” Liam stammers, after a truly impressive stretch of time, all things considered. “I-I, _god_ , I—”

“Do it, Liam,” Brett replies, speaking it right up against Liam’s mouth so his lips are brushing Liam’s on every word. “C’mon, _please_. I want to feel it. I want to feel _you_. _Please_.”

And Liam—doesn’t deny him.

He jerks and writhes and squirms hard enough as he comes that he nearly sets _Theo_ off, let alone Brett, who moans long and loud as he manages a few more quick, unsteady thrusts before he finally presses deep, and holds himself there. Liam’s still gasping through his orgasm with his head thrown back on one of Theo’s shoulders, but Brett’s mouth is _right there_ , so Theo darts forward and captures it, stroking his tongue deep and moaning himself when Brett clumsily tries to respond.

Finally Liam slumps _hard_ against Theo, his lungs working like bellows. Brett—thankfully— _doesn’t_ slump against Liam, and therefore transitively against Theo, but murmurs a quiet warning to Liam, and carefully leans back on his heels; Liam bites off a high sound as Brett’s softening cock slips out of him, but barely stirs.

“Jesus _christ_ ,” is all he can say, breathy and with half the syllables nearly inaudible. “Fuck _me_.”

“What?” Brett groans, as he rolls sideways and flops onto his back by Theo’s hip. “Again?”

“Ha, ha,” Liam fake laughs, twisting to glare at him a little.

But in twisting he seems to realize something, and he twists around the rest of the way to squint at Theo. Theo raises his eyebrows back, but doesn’t say anything, and eventually Liam grins, small and with his lips pressed together like he’s trying to stop it, and wobbles back onto his heels. 

“Hey,” he says quietly when he lands. He starts reaching a hand tentatively forward. “Hey, can I…?”

Theo gives him an incredulous look—it’s that or give him a disgustingly _fond_ look—and says, “Seriously? After all that, _this_ is what you’re going to ask for permission about?”

Liam just looks steadily back at him. “Well, yeah,” he agrees, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Theo doesn’t have anything to say to that. He stares. “Then, yeah,” he finally replies, and pretends his voice isn’t as croaky as it is. 

Liam just grins, and reaches forward, and wraps a hand around Theo’s still desperately hard cock. Theo’s eyelids try to flutter shut but he doesn’t let them, just drops his head back against the wall and watches Liam jerk him off through hooded eyes, his hips rocking helplessly up to meet him and the pleasure in his gut winching tighter, and tighter.

And then he jumps a little, and looks down, when Brett rolls over just enough to press a kiss to his hip. Theo feels his expression crumple, and he drops a hand to the back of Brett’s head, and holds on; it’s his left; his bracelet gleams in the night-dark light. 

He comes fast, making a mess of his own stomach. Liam doesn’t seem to mind, just leans forward, afterwards—pressing them together hips to chest—and kisses him, long and lingering and deep. Then he pulls back and—executing a ridiculous move that Theo just ends up snorting over—he ducks down and wiggles his way between Theo’s hip and upraised leg to reach Brett’s face, and kiss him, too.

And then he straightens up, and rolls sideways onto Theo’s other side, and flops flat on his back, too.

“Jesuuus,” he opines on a single, breathy exhale, staring up at the ceiling.

Theo just glances down at him, and then over at Brett—and noticing, absently, the contrast of the dark leather of his bracelet with Brett’s skin, his hair—and grins. 

“Jesus,” he agrees, and grins wider, when Brett’s only response is to laugh, quietly, and bury his face in Theo’s hip. 


	12. Chapter 12

_**Brett** _

Brett wakes up the next morning because something is buzzing, low and repeatedly and just on the edge of his hearing. He grimaces, and lifts his head to look up and around. 

He’s lying flat on his stomach, back to being perpendicular on Theo’s mattress still on the floor, and he’s got one arm folded underneath his head below the pillow he’s laying on, and one arm draped over Theo’s hips. Beside him, Theo is flat on his back, his face tilted towards Brett but his opposite arm curled _tight_ around Liam, who’s pressed up against his side, one leg tangled in between both of Theo’s. They’re both still fast asleep. 

They’re both, Brett realizes, exhausted but humming with a low-grade sort of contentment, soft and easy and radiating out from the base of _Brett’s_ skull. Brett has to turn his head briefly back into the pillow to hide his face as he lets that warmth spread through him, flowing down his spine and out through the tips of his fingers.

But that buzzing noise is still going, and eventually Brett groans and pushes himself up, and starts searching around for the source.

It’s Theo’s phone, still buried in the pocket of the sweatpants Brett had given Deaton to give to him last night. Brett bites his lip—and resists the sudden curling of arousal around the base of his spine, because the sweats still smell like his and Theo’s combined scents, and the room itself still _reeks_ of sex—and then slides his thumb across the screen to answer it. 

“Hey, Scott,” he greets quietly, climbing to his feet so that he can pad into carefully out of the bedroom, and into the hallway.

“Oh.” Brett can practically _hear_ Scott’s confused blink. “Uh, hi, Brett. You’re, uh. Still with Theo, clearly.”

He says it like a statement but he means it as a question. Brett swings the bedroom door closed behind him, leaving it cracked, and starts making his way towards the kitchen, and living room. “Yeah,” Brett answers. “We’re at his apartment. He’s still asleep.”

Scott lets out a relieved sigh, and does it close enough to his phone’s speakers, that feedback crackles all down the line. “So he’s good, then,” Scott interprets. “He’s okay?”

Brett glances back towards the closed bedroom door, warmth still bleeding out from the base of his skull. He smiles, softly. “Yeah,” Brett murmurs. “He’s healed up, no lasting damage, and he’s—he’s good.”

“Good,” Scott echoes, but absently; as Brett listens he can hear Scott take the phone away from his ear, and mutter something to someone else. Scott’s back the next second. “Good,” he repeats, more strongly. “Argent still wants to check him out, ask him some questions, but he can do that directly when we get there.”

Brett freezes.

“Get where?” He queries reflexively, but his mind is already racing, because he’s pretty sure he _knows_ where.

“Theo’s apartment,” Scott replies easily. “We’re, like—” he pauses, apparently calculating, “—fifteen minutes out, I think?”

Brett’s eyes widen, and he immediately starts scrambling back for the bedroom. “Oh, great!” He manages to say, though it probably comes out a little unnaturally high-pitched. “We’ll, uh. We’ll be here.”

Scott says something else that Brett absently hums in response to, and then tells Brett he’ll see him soon. Brett just drops Theo’s phone onto the pile of his and Theo’s and Liam’s discarded clothing, scattered at the edge of Theo’s floor-bound mattress, and kicks Theo’s naked ankle. Theo jolts and half-crunches reflexively upward as he makes a wordless noise of complaint. He just barely blinks his eyes open as he squints up at Brett, Liam squirming against his side and mumbling nonsense into Theo’s shoulder.

“Uh, morning, Brett,” Theo greets, his voice a shredded _rasp_. His eyes flick down to—to Brett’s cock, hanging soft between Brett’s legs, and his pupils dilate.

Brett has to immediately start breathing in through his mouth rather than his nose, and _brutally_ shove down the arousal that instantly flares hot and fast in his gut. “Get _up_ ,” he hisses. “Argent and Scott are going to be here in less than _fifteen minutes_.”

Theo’s eyes widen, and he scrambles to his feet. The sudden absence of Theo’s body underneath his leaves Liam flailing, and he gets himself tangled in the comforter before finally going flat, and glaring balefully up at them both. 

“What?” He mumbles sleepily. “What’s going on?”

Theo just stares at him, wide-eyed with incredulous disbelief. “Jesus christ,” he finally mutters, and turns to Brett. “Get him in the shower, would you? I’m going to try and—open up all the windows, and whatever else I can possibly think of.”

Brett doesn’t argue, but he also raises his eyebrows. “No matter what you do, Scott’s going to know.” 

But Theo doesn’t look particularly disturbed by the possibility. Instead he just mutters, darkly, “There’s knowing and then there’s _knowing_.” 

And then he leans in, absent-minded and clearly distracted, and kisses Brett. Brett stiffens, taken aback, and by the time he’s shaken himself out of it Theo is already gone, disappeared into the rest of the apartment to do whatever minimal amount he’s going to be able to do to keep Scott from _knowing_ , rather than just knowing, whatever the hell that means.

Brett snorts, amused, and a little—little something else, color on his cheeks, and then he leans down, and braces himself over Liam, who’d already let his eyes slide back shut. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, and gets an arm underneath Liam’s shoulders to start levering him gently upright. Liam grumbles a complaint, but follows him.

He also seems perfectly content to just let Brett puppet him around, clearly still more than three-quarters asleep and not overly concerned with waking any further up. Brett holds him against his own body with one arm while he reaches for the shower controls with the other once they reach the bathroom, and Liam just mumbles more nonsense and mashes his face into Brett’s chest. 

Brett has to pause, then, and glance down at him, open-mouthed and slightly stunned.

The first touch of the water to Liam’s skin seems to do it, though, as Brett gets him _carefully_ stepped into the tub, and underneath the spray. He grumbles a complaint, one eye squinting closed, but he twists around to look at Brett when Brett hesitates, still stood on the outside of the tub, and frowns at him.

“What are you waiting for?” Liam wonders croakily, and he flails out a hand to grab one of Brett’s wrists, and yank Brett in behind himself. 

Brett goes, and—when Liam doesn’t protest, and in fact presses _back_ into it—leans against Liam and slides his hands around Liam’s waist, holding him close and turning his face against the side of Liam’s head. He can’t stop prodding at his new awareness of Liam sitting up tight at the base of his skull.

Liam hums, curiously. “I can feel it when you do that,” he mumbles, still sleepy. Brett stiffens. “No, it’s—!” Liam protests immediately, and whips a hand up to curl around the back of Brett’s neck, his fingers gently poking and prodding as he—clearly looks for the spot Brett had shown him last night. “I like it,” he finally confesses quietly, as his fingers settle into the dip right where Brett’s spine connects to his skull. “It feels…”

He trails off, and doesn’t actually explain how it feels, but he does turn around, and bury his face in Brett’s chest, his arms coming up to squeeze _tight_ around Brett in turn. Brett stares down at him for a second, and then he can’t help it—he has to reach for Liam’s chin, and tip it up so that he can press his lips to Liam’s, kissing him hard and then _deep_ when Liam immediately leans up and kisses back.

Of course, they’re interrupted less than a minute later when Theo rips open the shower curtain.

“Not that this isn’t _immensely_ attractive—and seriously, _fuck you both_ for it right now—but _get out_ , and get dressed,” he orders. He looks at Brett, because apparently he doesn’t trust Liam around simple kitchen tasks, and says, “There’s bacon on the stove, and coffee brewing.”

Brett just grins, and shoots a glance at Liam—who immediately grins back—and then they both reach forward, almost simultaneously, and yank Theo stumbling forward into the shower with them.

It’s not their smartest move considering how slick the tile is and how little room there actually is for three people in Theo’s apartment’s tiny bathroom, but it’s _worth it_ for the way that Theo’s eyes go wide and his pulse rockets up and scent goes hot, at first—as Brett takes a hold of his face and turns it up so that Brett can kiss him, and Liam presses up against his side and _bites_ at the opposite side of his neck—but then mellows out, goes liquid and warm, when both Brett and Liam leave off riling him up to just lean against him, one on either side.

Still, Theo seems weirdly determined not to risk burning his own apartment down, so he forces them out fast. 

By the time the knock at the front door comes, they’re all dressed—Theo back in his own clothes, and Liam and Brett back in what they’d been wearing last night—and moving around the kitchen with wet hair and bare feet. It’s a little chilly with literally every window in the apartment thrown open, and Brett can’t help noticing the way that Liam’s bare toes keep curling on the tile; he has to resist the urge to press up against him when Liam leans against the counter, or just straight-up stands in the middle of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, clearly lost in thought.

Brett’s the one who ends up answering the door; Theo’s still manning the bacon, and Liam just freezes, like it’s only _now_ occurring to him what Scott and Argent’s arrival might mean. Brett snorts a laugh as he yanks open the door, and looks out at Scott and Argent standing in the hallway.

Scott just immediately blinks, long and slow and eventually opening up wide, wide eyes as his nostrils reflexively flare, and his shoulders rise as his chest expands with the deep breath he’d clearly just sucked in. Brett—one hand still on the door—just meets his startled stare, his lips pulling between his teeth, and then he gives a tiny little shrug. 

And Scott—just grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his mouth pulling wide. Brett feels something gone preemptively tight in his chest unwind, and he steps back to let both Scott and Argent in.

Scott steps through the door first, followed by Argent. “Liam,” he acknowledges amiably when he sees him, flicking him a little salute. “I’m surprised that I’m surprised you’re here.”

Liam just colors, and scuttles around to go stand on Theo’s other side in front of the oven, clearly hiding and clearly trying to pretend that he’s—overseeing Theo’s preparation of the bacon, or whatever. Brett sees Theo shoot Liam an incredulous glance, but he doesn’t say anything, just offers over the spatula so that he—once Liam takes it with a baffled look—can turn around to face Scott and Argent, his hands dropping to his pants as he wipes them dry on his thighs. Still, he doesn’t look up at them right away, and when he does, it’s from underneath a ducked, uncertain brow.

“Hey, Theo,” Scott greets quietly. He doesn’t ask if Theo’s okay, or how he’s doing, which initially causes Brett’s brow to furrow before it smooths out. _He doesn’t want to be asked_ , Brett realizes, flicking a look at Theo, and feeling something like—like _admiration_ start to uncurl in his gut as he looks back at Scott.

“Sorry to pull you away from the hunt,” Theo replies, his arms rising to cross loosely over his chest; behind him, Brett can see Liam shoot him an unhappy look. 

But Scott just shrugs, and ruffles a hand back through his already messy hair; Brett wonders if he and Argent had driven all night to get back to Beacon Hills, and then realizes that they must have. “Nah. It’s been like, almost six whole months since the last time I was in mortal terror for someone I’m responsible for, so.” He quirks Theo a small grin. “I was probably due.”

The gallows humor strikes Brett as odd, again, until he glances back over at Theo and sees the smile he’s trying to bite back; sees some of the tension flow out of his shoulders. _True alpha indeed_ , Brett thinks, sneaking another searching look at Scott.

“Anyway!” Scott finally says. He tips Theo a sympathetic grimace of a look. “Tell us what happened?”

There aren’t enough chairs around Theo’s kitchen table for all of them, so they end up divided between the table and kitchen. Scott and Argent and Theo take the table, and Brett ends up nudging Liam towards the last chair as the only other present member of Scott’s pack, but it’s a bit of a wasted effort; Liam can’t sit still, just keeps cycling back and forth between Scott and the others at the table, and Brett leaning back against a section of kitchen counter. At first he does it under the guise of needing more coffee, until Theo—finally losing patience with his restlessness—reaches forward as Liam goes to stand up again and literally yanks Liam’s mug out of his hands, and gives him a pointed look. 

Liam just huffs, and slumps back in his chair, and then scrambles to his feet _anyway_ and goes to get a new mug from Theo’s cabinets. This time it’s _Brett_ who takes the empty mug out of his hands, and gives him a look when he protests. 

“They knew it was your jurisdiction,” Theo eventually concludes as he and Scott and Argent, mostly, keep talking, the rest of the details of the hunter attack given and Argent’s questions answered throughout. “They just didn’t care.”

Argent gives him a dry look. “I _highly_ doubt those were the words they used.”

Theo grimaces, and takes a long drink of his coffee. “They weren’t,” he agrees, and doesn’t elaborate.

But neither Argent nor Scott apparently need him to. Scott—slumped over the table with his head propped up on a bracing palm, his eyes heavy-lidded no matter how much sugar-laden coffee he drinks—twists to look at Argent, a pinched expression on his face. “You were right,” he says. “The traditional order is starting to crack.”

Brett’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean but apparently Theo gets it. “Monroe,” he realizes. “Her movement is putting pressure on the established hunter clans.”

Argent nods, tiredly. He groans, and leans back as he covers his face with his hands. He stays like that for a second, and then he exhales out a deep breath, and explains, “It’s—exposing divisions. Policy disagreements.” His eyes flick to Theo, and to Theo’s bracelet. Brett remembers the way the hunter last night had held up his own wrist, and twisted it around as he’d said: _oh, well, innocent. I think we_ both _know that’s not true_. “It’s not open conflict yet, but…” He leaves the thought, horrifying as it is, trailing.

He and Scott and Theo all sigh, heavily. Brett and Liam—who’d wound up leaning against the counter next to Brett after his misadventure with the mug—exchange a look.

“Anyway,” Argent digresses. He looks at Theo. “I’m sorry.”

Theo’s expression just tightens, clearly uncomfortable. “Not sure there was anything you could have done to stop it,” he points out neutrally.

“And yet,” Argent says, and glances at Brett this time. “I’m still sorry.”

Brett swallows, and gives him the slightest nod.

Scott goes to open his mouth, maybe about to do something to crack the somber atmosphere, maybe about to do something to continue it, but he doesn’t get the chance: Theo’s front door suddenly bangs open again, and Lori storms through.

“Oh, good,” she notes, glaring first at Brett and then at Theo as she gets a hand around the door, and slams it back shut. “You assholes are still alive.”

Theo—along with Liam, and Scott and Argent—shoot Brett a look. Brett just widens his eyes at Theo in particular, and then refocuses on Lori. “I _told you_ that,” he counters. “I called you while I was waiting at the animal clinic last night.”

“Oh, of course!” Lori snaps back. “Because that _two minute call_ was perfectly adequate for closing the loop on you making me think that either one or both of you was going to _die_.” She glares even more heatedly at him. “I thought you were going to _come home_ , and finish goddamn explaining, but I—see now,” she suddenly adds, her quick pace slowing and her expression blanking with surprise as she looks between Brett, and then Liam, and then quickly at Theo, her nostrils flaring, “that you were busy doing _other things_.” 

The emphasis on the last two words is just _unnecessary_. Brett makes sure his expression reflects that. Lori just smiles winsomely at him, apparently well-pleased and feeling pettily vindicated enough to no longer be actively angry with Brett specifically and the world in general, and she flounces her way into the kitchen and starts rooting around the cabinets. 

“Where’s a mug?” She demands. “I need coffee.”

Liam—his face still _flaming_ —retrieves the mug that Brett had taken away from him, and holds it out.

Lori smiles just as winsomely at him, and turns for the coffee pot.

“Well,” Argent says, more than a little blankly. He exchanges a slightly incredulous look with Scott, eyebrows raised, before turning back to address the room at large. “Derek’s already downtown trying to pick up the hunters’ trail. Any chance you can give us a description, figure out exactly who we’re dealing with?”

“I can do you one better,” Theo answers quietly, and slips his phone out of his pocket. He navigates to the pictures app, and then sets his phone on the table and nudges it towards Argent with the backs of his knuckles. Argent stares down at the first photo, and then swipes to the next one.

“And their symbol was a set of crossed swords?” He double-checks, glancing up at Theo.

Theo nods. “Yeah. Crossed swords.” He meets Argent’s eyes, and confirms, very quietly, “The Thurows.”

“Dammit,” Argent swears, just as quietly, and slides Theo’s phone back over at him. He looks at Scott. “We should get going. We need to deal with this.”

He starts to stand, but he pauses and looks over when Brett straightens up off the counter. Brett’s not entirely sure what he’s doing—Lori and Liam and Theo are also looking at him strangely, as is Scott—but his instincts had twisted at Argent’s statement. Brett just grits his teeth.

“ _We_ need to deal with this,” he corrects Argent, using the same words but putting a very specific emphasis on that _we_. “It happened in my territory.”

Argent’s expression slackens some with surprise, clearly taken aback. And then he bows his head, just slightly; an apology and an acknowledgement. Brett blinks.

But it’s Scott who agrees, easily enough, “True. Absolutely true. But,” he says, meeting Brett’s eyes when Brett looks over at him, “I’m hoping as your official ally—” he pauses just long enough to grin, though it falls off his face as he continues, “—and as the party who arguably fucked up, here, you’ll agree to let me and Argent and Derek handle it, at least for right now.”

Brett’s brow furrows. “Scott,” he murmurs, studying him.

“Graduation’s in a week,” Scott replies, looking right back, though he sneaks glances at Liam, at Theo; at Lori. “Please,” he asks quietly. “Trust us to handle this, for now.”

This time it’s _Liam_ who murmurs, “Scott,” soft and stunned. Scott shoots him a shaky smile.

But he looks back at Brett, after. He looks back at Brett, and flares his eyes. Not a threat, but an acknowledgement, a—gesture of respect, maybe, and then he repeats, “Please.”

And what’s Brett going to say? _No?_ He hesitates, glancing at Lori, and then at Theo, and then—and then at _Liam_ , before he looks back at Scott. “Okay,” he agrees quietly.

Scott’s answering grin is _blinding_.

He and Argent get ready to leave, after that, cleaning up their mugs and setting them in the sink, and having last, absent side-conversations with Liam or Theo or both. But it’s Argent who pauses as they’re literally on their way out the door to call _Theo_ , and wait impatiently while Theo jerks to look at him, visibly wary.

“Come _here_ ,” Argent demands, when Theo just continues to stare at him from his spot in the kitchen.

And so Theo—very slowly, and only after glancing at Brett, and then at Liam—winds his way around the counter, and approaches Argent. Argent just gives him a dry look, and then catches his left wrist when Theo is close enough.

“Extend a claw,” he orders, and now _Brett_ is giving Argent a strange look, but Theo—after a second’s hesitation—does it, shifting the claw on his right index finger. Argent doesn’t offer any further explanation, just lifts his own right index finger, and punctures the meat of the pad on the sharp tip of Theo’s claw. 

Everyone except Argent jolts forward, confused and a little concerned. But Argent just ignores them, and—still holding Theo’s left wrist—touches his bleeding fingertip and—and _Theo’s bracelet_ to the carving hanging by the door. 

The carving _flares_ , bright and briefly blinding. When it fades, and Brett is able to blink his eyes back open—though he has to keep blinking the spots out of his vision—Argent is dropping Theo’s wrist, and saying, “The magic of the bracelet takes longer to undo, but for now, that’ll disable the carving.” He glances back at Brett, and Liam, and then gestures Scott to keep walking down the hallway. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Holy shit,” Liam breathes, when Scott and Argent are out of not only sight, but the range of Scott’s supernatural hearing, too. He meets Theo’s wide eyes with his own when Theo jerks to look at him.

“Holy shit,” Theo agrees blankly, and turns to look at—at _Brett_ , who laughs, breathy and blank, and thinks _holy shit_.

_**Liam** _

The silence that falls in the apartment after Argent unexpectedly and without warning disables the carving by Theo’s door lasts exactly as long as it takes Lori—who’d boosted herself up onto the counter, at one point, and is still sitting there—to reach out, and just _nail_ Brett directly in the meat of his upper arm.

“Ow, Lori!” Brett protests, jerking away from her and bringing his opposite hand up reflexively to cover the spot she’d punched, though any bruising or whatever is definitely already healed.

“You deserve,” Lori just shoots back, “ _way worse_ for last night. Though congratulations, I guess,” she adds, eyeing Liam thoughtfully, “on finding another stray.”

Liam gives her a strange look right back, even as out of the corner of his eye, he can see Brett coloring and _glaring_ at her.

Lori just tilts her head. “Though he isn’t a stray inasmuch, is he?” She flicks her eyes back to Brett. “What are you going to do, sue Scott for joint custody?”

“Lori!” Brett squawks; Liam’s face flames.

That devolves into a squabble pretty quick, and Theo’s still standing stunned by his still-open door, so Liam leaves the Talbot siblings to their argument and picks his way slowly over to Theo, like he’s approaching a cornered animal. Theo jolts, when Liam gets close enough and Theo apparently finally notices him, and then stares at _him_ instead of sightlessly out into the hallway. 

“Hey,” Liam says carefully, his eyes on where Theo had brought his right hand over to cover his left wrist; hiding the bracelet, or maybe just—holding onto it. After a second—and a quick pull of his lip between his teeth—Liam reaches forward for the bracelet, too, his fingers overlapping Theo’s. “So that was, uh. Pretty unexpected.”

Theo doesn’t answer right away. His expression is still blown-open. He looks from Liam, back to the carving, and back. “Yeah,” he finally agrees blankly. Just that; that single syllable.

Brett and Lori are still arguing in the kitchen. The words tease at the edge of Liam’s hearing but instead of trying to catch them, Liam does his best to _ignore_ them—granting Brett and Lori what privacy he can—and instead leans forward, one of his hands still on Theo’s wrist, to lean _around_ Theo, and get his other hand on the front door. He swings it back closed, and locks it.

When he leans back, Theo is watching him, the line of his mouth soft and unsure. Liam looks back, his eyes searching Theo’s face.

“Wow,” he finally murmurs, not unkindly. “Wow, you, uh. Really do not know what to do with that at _all_ , do you?” He’s not sure why that makes something in his chest twist.

But Theo just jerks a little, and the expression on his face becomes even more pinched. “I don’t know what to do with any of this,” he confesses, and his eyes—after lingering on Liam’s, for a beat—flick to Brett, still arguing with Lori in the kitchen.

Liam feels his face fall. His fingers are still on Theo’s wrist, and they spasm, reflexively. But then Liam tightens them purposefully, and tugs a little on Theo’s wrist. Theo looks back at him. 

“Then I guess,” Liam concludes, meeting Theo’s eyes, “you’re going to have to let us help you figure it out.” 

He says it like a statement but there’s a slight waver in his voice that gives away the fact that he’s _asking_. That he’s _hoping_. Theo’s eyes flick between his, clearly searching, and then he suddenly twists his wrist free of Liam’s grip and brings both his hands up to Liam’s face, cradling it as he surges forward into Liam and kisses him.

From the kitchen, Lori breaks off arguing with her brother to wolf-whistle.

Theo pulls back, his expression dry. “You’re still here,” he notes pointedly.

Lori just grins at him—Liam turning to look—and takes another sip of her coffee. “I’d get used to it, given recent developments.”

Theo’s expression goes even _more_ dry, but still stood by Lori, Brett’s has gone a little tight. Liam watches as Theo catches sight of it, and his own expression spasms. Theo swallows.

“No pleasure without pain,” Theo finally drawls, _clearly_ trying to keep a smirk off his face, and this time it’s Lori who squawks, and grabs an apple off of the counter next to her, and whips it at him.

Liam’s not entirely sure how it happens—there’s _literally_ no discussion about it—but they somehow all wind up in Theo’s living room, Brett and Lori on Theo’s couch and Liam and Theo sprawled out on the floor. It happens in stages, really; first Theo, in dodging and then retrieving Lori’s apple missile, winds up dropping onto the couch and then staying there after he sets the severely bruised apple down on the coffee table. After a moment’s indecision Liam vaults the back of the couch to join him, and then Brett and Lori just—wander over, too.

They spend a few minutes in a silence that crawls slowly by at first, before Liam—not _uncomfortable_ in the silence, exactly, but—tilts his head to look over at Theo, and points out, “You know, we _were_ on the season finale.”

Theo gives him an unimpressed look. “ _I_ was on the season finale _weeks_ ago,” he reminds Liam, and then rolls his eyes and goes to retrieve his laptop when Liam just pretends he can’t hear him. Liam also looks up and smiles and then gives up his seat to Lori when she wanders over behind Brett, because Theo’s couch isn’t really built to contain all of Brett’s ridiculously long folded-up limbs _and_ two other people. It’s how he ends up on the ground with Theo when Theo comes back.

He and Theo start out stretched out lengthwise in front of the couch, their heads on throw pillows that Brett and Lori hand down. As the show plays, though—and Lori interrupts every five minutes to ask what the hell is going on, because she’s never seen it—they both end up sprawling more, their limbs going looser; they wind up pressing together, arms-hips-calves, and Liam starts finding it easier to breathe.

It helps, too, when he shifts enough that his opposite shoulder is pressed up against the outside of Brett’s leg; he tips his head back to look up at him, and grins when Brett looks back at him, his lips quirking.

But partway through the first episode of the next season—the four of them again just making some kind of silent pact to keep watching—Theo suddenly gives his head a short, sharp shake, and then he grimaces and rolls to his feet. 

“Bathroom,” he mutters in explanation as he steps over Liam, and apologizes absently to Brett and Lori for blocking their view, as he goes. Liam just rolls over onto his side to watch him as he disappears down the hallway, frowning.

And then he glances up at Brett, and sees that the line of Brett’s mouth has gone tight as he glances back over his shoulder at Theo, too. Liam climbs to his feet.

The bathroom door is cracked when he reaches it. Liam hesitates for just a moment and then puts a palm flat on the door, carefully pressing it further open. Theo—hunched over the sink with his hands braced wide on the surrounding counter—flicks his eyes up to look at Liam in the mirror. His shoulders are rising and falling unsteadily.

But he just says, “What if I’d actually been going to the bathroom?”

Liam doesn’t take the bait. “You would have actually closed the door,” he just responds pointedly, and steps the rest of the way inside.

After a moment, he swings the door back to its previous, cracked position.

Theo’s watching him when Liam finishes turning back around. His expression is unreadable, but. Liam squints, looking a little closer at Theo’s reflection. _Are his lips...bluer than normal?_ He finds himself wondering, baffled.

Theo apparently realizes where he’s looking, or possibly what he’s thinking, and he twists around so that his back is to the counter instead, and then he gestures for Liam to give him one of his hands. Liam hesitates a beat, and then does.

But: “Holy _shit_ ,” he squeaks, when Theo takes a hold of his fingers; Theo’s skin is fucking _freezing_.

Theo just ignores his outburst, and brings Liam’s fingers up so that they’re pressing against Theo’s lips, which: now that Liam’s looking at them head-on, are _definitely_ bluer than normal. Liam’s fingers spasm, and he drags his gaze up to Theo’s eyes from his mouth.

“I don’t know what it is, before you ask,” Theo tells him quietly, then: “What _they_ are. They just…happen sometimes, now.” His lips—shifting beneath Liam’s fingers—quirk. “This one’s actually pretty tame, really. I’m cold but I can still—” he cuts himself off, suddenly, like he’s only now wondering if Liam’s going to appreciate the casual dark humor, and then he swallows, and finishes, “—move.”

Liam just keeps staring. It feels a little weird to just be standing in the middle of Theo’s bathroom with his fingers on Theo’s mouth, so he lets them fall, though when the catch on Theo’s—also freezing, even through his shirt—chest, he leaves them there. “Does it hurt?” 

Theo shakes his head. “Not right now, anyway.”

Which means it, or _they_ , or whatever—do, normally. Liam feels his expression twist. 

“Liam,” Theo tries.

“What did you mean, they just happen sometimes _now?_ ” Liam wonders, glancing back up at him from where his eyes had fallen to his hand. “When did they start?”

Theo touches his tongue to his bottom lip. Liam recognizes the tell, both from last night and in general: _he doesn’t want to tell me_. 

The difference is, this time Theo _does_. “After you pulled me out of the skinwalker prison.”

Liam feels his own expression go raw with shock, and—and something else. He starts to pull away from Theo.

“Hey!” Theo says, whispered but still firm as he follows. “Hey, it’s not—you look like you’re thinking it’s your _fault_.”

Liam just feels his jaw clench. “You said you don’t know what they are, so then you don’t know that it _isn’t_.” He keeps trying to pull away.

But Theo just keeps following him, and far enough back that when Liam’s back hits the bathroom wall behind him, Theo ends up half-pinning him. “I know,” he says when Liam is forced to his sudden stop, “that I was in the skinwalker prison for _my_ mistakes, not yours.” He searches Liam’s eyes. “The fact that I didn’t get to—to just walk away from it consequence-free isn’t your fault, either.”

Liam just drops his head back against the wall. His eyes drop back to Theo’s lips; still blue-tinged. 

“It’ll fade,” Theo assures him quietly. He leans forward, and presses his forehead to one of Liam’s temples.

Liam shivers at the first touch of his cool skin, and then—when Theo jerks, suddenly, like he’d only just fully remembered—he snaps a hand up, and stops Theo’s retreat. Theo settles back down against him.

And then, a few seconds later, his head tips up, and then twists around, so that he’s looking towards the still-cracked door. He reaches over a hand and gets it on the knob, and pulls it open. Lingering out in the hallway, Brett stiffens, caught.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his expression pinched.

Liam looks at him. “You knew,” he realizes. “About—whatever these are.”

Brett hesitates—darting a look at Theo—and then waves his fingers next to the back of his head. “I can feel them, sort of,” he explains quietly.

“He’s helped me through a few,” Theo suddenly offers, and when Liam looks at him in surprise, Theo’s not looking at him; he’s looking at Brett. Brett looks more shocked than Liam does.

And then _Brett_ twists around, and stares at Lori as she makes her way down the hallway, her arms crossing and her steps slow until she reaches a stretch of wall opposite the open bathroom door, and leans against it. Her expression is soft, and more than a little uneasy, and when she finally looks back at Brett and shrugs, her voice cracks a little as she explains dismissively, “I wanted to complain to the manager about the tiny screen we’re being forced to watch this show on. I can’t properly admire the main character’s chest.”

Brett’s expression furrows and Liam can feel his doing the same, but surprisingly it’s _Theo_ who says, voice desert-dry, “My apologies that the amenities in my prison cell aren’t up to your standards.”

Lori’s lips flicker, though her expression stays pinched, the skin around her eyes tight as she clearly studies Theo’s face. “I don’t know,” she finally shoots back. “Without that carving on the door, is it still a prison cell?”

Theo’s mouth drops open. Liam’s does, too, and Brett’s face doesn’t seem to know _what_ it wants to do.

“Anyway,” Lori finally says, shrugging. “If you three are done with your moment, I propose we decamp to our place,” she suggests, looking at Brett. She glances at Theo, and Liam, after, and concludes, “Our TV is bigger.”

She pushes off the wall, after she’s dropped the—invitation? Liam supposes it was technically an invitation—and starts walking away, back towards the living room. Brett and Theo don’t move, and since Theo—who’s still half-pinning Liam to the wall—doesn’t move, Liam can’t either. 

It’s Brett who finally touches his tongue to his bottom lip, and shrugs. “Up to you,” he offers, and then he winces a bit. “If you don’t need to get back to Beacon Hills, Liam. I forgot you don’t have your car.”

But Liam just lets his head fall back against the wall so he can look up at Theo, who notices the attention and looks down at him. Liam searches Theo’s face for a few seconds, and then he smiles.

“Nah,” he says finally. “I’m right where I need to be.”

_**Theo** _

Theo ends up being the one to take Liam home that night, because Argent texts him _Animal Clinic, 20:00_ that afternoon while they’re all still lounging around Brett’s and Lori’s apartment.

It’s a relatively quiet ride. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. Liam spends most of it slumped back against the passenger seat, his head tipped back and to the side to stare out of his window. Every now and then he’ll glance over at Theo, but only for a few seconds at a time, and always with an unreadable look on his face. Theo lets him look, his left wrist—his bracelet gleaming in the streetlights lining the highway—resting easy on his steering wheel. 

But eventually it’s Liam who breaks the silence of the cab. “Hey, can I ask you something?” He wonders, tipping his head the other way so that he’s watching Theo thoughtfully instead of the scenery flying by.

Theo glances at him. “Sure.”

Liam bites his lip; Theo had turned back to the road, but he still sees it out of the corner of his eye. “You and Brett. How’d it. How’d it start?”

Theo blows out a long, rough breath. “Jesus. Don’t ease into it, or anything.”

Liam just makes a face, and turns his head back forward, too. “I could have asked if we need to be worried about you taking off in the middle of the night, now that Argent is going to be removing your bracelet.”

Theo looks at him, a little stunned. “Yeah,” he agrees blankly after a second, and then swallows. “Yeah, I guess you could have.”

“So?” Liam presses, letting his head fall sideways so that he’s looking at Theo again. Still, his curiosity is toothless. Theo could probably change the subject and Liam would let him.

Theo doesn’t change the subject. “It started as a fight.”

Liam barks a laugh, apparently genuinely amused. “Of course it did.” Then he sobers, some. “How’d it—change?”

Theo—considers, for a moment, and then shrugs. “It didn’t, really,” he replies quietly. “It was just another way to fight.” He hesitates, and then adds, “It was _weeks_ before it became—anything else.”

Liam’s watching him thoughtfully again. “But it did become something else,” he concludes. And he _is_ concluding; he’s not asking.

“It did,” Theo just agrees, and doesn’t elaborate. But he does—slide his lounging wrist down off the steering wheel, and bring his other hand up, so that both of his hands are wrapped around the leather. It creaks as he squeezes his fingers tight. “And about the other thing—” 

He meets Liam’s eyes when Liam looks over, still that same, quiet curious.

“You don’t need to be worried about me taking off,” he says.

Liam’s eyes widen. His mouth drops softly open.

Theo—looks away, back out at the road.

Liam doesn’t stop staring at him. Theo can feel the attention on the side of his face but doesn’t turn to look. Can’t, really; something had started squirming in his chest the second he’d made his declaration, and it keeps right on doing so as the seconds tick by. He keeps his focus on the road, even though the traffic is relatively light.

Finally Liam just smiles—soft and secret and apparently a little helpless—and turns away. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he finally warns, though his tone is so warm—so pleased—it sands off the edges of any actual threat.

Theo just smirks lightly, too. The squirming thing in his chest starts to still.

They drive for another few minutes in silence, and then Liam’s phone buzzes. He slides his phone out of his pocket, and glances down. “Hey,” he says absently as he reads the text. “Any chance we could stop by the store on the way to my house? My mom wants me to pick up some things.”

Theo glances at the time, but he’s got more than enough before he needs to meet Argent. “Sure. Raley’s okay?”

Raley’s is fine by Liam, and blessedly empty when they get there. Theo trails LIam into the store since he has no idea what Liam’s mom needs and Liam has done nothing to enlighten him, and just follows along after him as Liam stares down at his phone screen and mutters to himself.

“I swear sometimes she picks obscure recipes just to send me on wild hunts through the grocery store,” he gripes, and then he looks up from his phone to squint around at the hanging sign listing the aisle’s contents.

Theo leans against one of the shelves, hands in his pockets. “You could ask someone,” he points out.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees absently. “C’mon, I think it’s the next aisle over.”

Whatever it is, it’s not in the next aisle over. Liam huffs in frustration when they reach the end of it, and turns in a tight little circle as he frowns around at the shelves, like they’re personally in on his inability to locate Jenna Geyer’s oddly specific grocery requests. 

And then he freezes.

Curious, but not alarmed—Liam smells startled, not scared—Theo leans forward, and then around Liam, to follow his eye-line. “Who the hell’s that?” He wonders, looking at the apron-frocked young store employee who’s staring wide-eyed at Liam staring at him.

“No one,” Liam replies automatically. “Nothing,” he adds, clearly lying, and then he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it and pushing all the blood out until it’s a pale pink. “Give me a second,” he finally requests, and starts jogging away, towards the employee, before Theo can actually respond.

“Okay,” Theo agrees blankly, and mostly to himself, and leans back against the end of the aisle once more. 

But he sharpens his hearing, because: come _on_.

“Brandon,” Liam calls as he gets close. “Hey.”

Apparently-Brandon’s face is approximately the color of cold milk. When he speaks, he stammers. “H-hey, Liam.” He’s holding an empty metal tray—which he’d clearly been using to restock the selection of ground beef he’s standing in front of—over his chest like a shield. 

“Look,” Liam tells him, and for all that he’s clearly trying to play it cool, it still comes off as a little aggressive. “My mom wants—” he makes a big show of looking down at his phone, “—quartered and marinated artichoke hearts. Any idea where I can find them?”

 _What the hell?_ Theo wonders, eyes narrowing.

“Uh, yeah,” Brandon manages. “Aisle Nine, about halfway down. If you reach the canned tomato sauce, you’ve gone too far.” He gives Liam an uncertain flicker of a smile that looks like it’s ready to fly off his face at the _slightest_ indication from Liam that it’s unwelcome.

Liam just touches his tongue to his bottom lip, and then nods, and dredges up a smile of his own. “Thanks, Brandon,” he finally says. “See you later.” 

He turns around, and starts jogging back towards Theo. 

But he doesn’t stop when he reaches him, just keeps heading down the aisle; turns out they’d _been_ in the correct aisle, but had, in fact, reached the tomato sauce and gone too far. Theo trails after him, brow furrowed.

“What the hell was that about?” Theo demands.

Liam ignores him for a moment, his eyes scanning the shelves. Finally he locates the desired glass container of quartered and marinated artichoke hearts, and grabs it. He pauses then, and shoots Theo an unreadable look.

“People deserve second chances, right?” He finally says, like that follows at _all_ from a conversation about where to find a container of marinated vegetables in a grocery store with a nervous teenager. 

Theo _stares_.

Liam just studies him for a second longer, and then turns for the front of the store. “C’mon,” he says. “That’s everything.”

Theo’s still thinking about Liam’s too-casual statement an hour or so later when he gets to the animal clinic after dropping Liam—and his armful of unbagged groceries because _dude it’s like three jars, I’ll be fine_ —off. He still hasn’t come to any conclusions how he feels about it, and Liam hadn’t offered any further explanation, and so Theo had just—let it go.

He wonders, briefly, if this is how Liam had felt the past several months.

“Theo,” Argent greets as Theo shoulders his way through the clinic door. It opens and closes without incident; someone had already fixed the hinges Liam had warped blowing through it last night.

Argent had been sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting room, his booted feet kicked up on the wooden divider separating it from the rest of the clinic. He drops them down one at a time as he goes to stand, and doesn’t _quite_ manage to stifle a groan as he does. _He’s exhausted_ , Theo realizes, and it’s not just a guess; he _smells_ exhausted, through and through.

Deaton’s standing on the other side of the divider. He and Argent had clearly been talking before Theo had walked in but it hadn’t been of any real substance, apparently; they both let the conversation go without comment, and Deaton leans over and unhooks the mountain ash gate, swinging it open. 

“Thanks,” Theo says after a beat, a little surprised by the courtesy; it’s not like he couldn’t have opened it up himself, mountain ash notwithstanding.

He trails Deaton back into the exam room, followed by Argent. Deaton has the same set of ingredients set out that he’d had the day he’d first put the bracelet on Theo, down to the same metal bowl. Grimacing slightly at the sight, Theo automatically takes up his position on the other side of the exam table, and waits.

This time, though, Deaton gestures for Argent’s hand first, not last. As Theo watches Deaton adds the same ingredients to his little bowl that he had originally, only in reverse order; several drops of Argent’s blood first, and then one herb after another. Theo stares, a little fascinated: _how deceptively goddamn simple_. 

Finally Deaton finishes adding the last of the ingredients, and takes a moment to mix them. Once satisfied, he picks up the metal tool he’d used to paint the runes on the bracelet the first time.

“Your wrist, Mr. Raeken,” he requests. Theo places it into the cup of Deaton’s offered hand.

It doesn’t take him long to trace the runes burned into the leather of Theo’s bracelet with the wet tip of the metal tool, Deaton regularly pausing to scoop more of the mixture onto it. Theo expects to start feeling something at the first press of metal to herb-and-blood mixture to leather, but it isn’t until Deaton finishes running the tip of the tool over the last of the runes that he has to suck in a sharp breath—a sensation like something hooked _deep_ inside him releasing—and brace himself against the table with his free hand, his knees suddenly going weak.

The bracelet falls open.

Deaton takes the bracelet—can it really be called a bracelet still, Theo wonders, if it’s back to being just a strip of leather?—away with him as he withdraws his hand. He twists his fingers, after, and gets it set down on the table between them, next to the little bowl and the collection of ingredients he’d used to make his mixture. He braces his now empty hands on the table.

“Anything else?” He inquires wryly, his eyes on Argent.

Argent just smirks, slightly. “Nothing at the moment.”

“Wonderful,” Deaton replies, still in that same wry tone. “Then please get out of my clinic so that I can go home.”

Argent laughs, low and under his breath, and pushes up off the wall he’d been leaning against. He looks at Theo—who has his right hand wrapped firmly around his now-bare left wrist—and jerks his chin towards the exit. “See you tomorrow morning, Alan,” he tells Deaton, and starts to turn for the door.

Theo goes to follow him, and then hesitates. He looks back at Deaton, the tip of his tongue pressed to his bottom lip. “Can I take this?” He finally asks, his hand hovering over the leather strip now sitting innocuously on the table. 

Deaton gives him a level and considering look, and then shrugs. “As you like.”

Theo grabs the leather strip and hurries out, before either Deaton can change his mind or Theo himself can overthink it. 

Argent’s waiting by his SUV when Theo finally makes it out into the parking lot, the leather strip now shoved deep into one of his jeans’ pockets. Argent taps a knuckle against the metal of the driver’s door as Theo slows on his approach towards him, his eyes on his fingers and his expression thoughtful. He looks over at Theo, mouth pursed.

“What else do you know about the Thurows?” He wonders.

Theo hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly, and then he recites, “They’re one of the oldest hunting clans in the country. Ancestor way back was one of the founding members of Montana itself, and the matriarch has always been a senior member of the Hunter’s Council. Why?”

Argent nods slowly. He looks away, back at his hand still idly playing against the side of his SUV, and then looks back. “The Marais?”

“The Louisiana hunter clan?” Theo clarifies.

“They’ve expanded farther Southeast, now, too,” Argent informs him. “Their jurisdiction butts up against the Maestas in Florida, now.”

Theo has no idea where Argent is going with this. “Sorry,” he apologizes, not particularly sorry at all. “My knowledge of western U.S. hunter clans has always topped my knowledge of the eastern ones.”

Argent hums. “What about your knowledge of eastern pack histories?” 

“A little firmer,” Theo answers slowly, intuition starting to unfurl in the back of his mind. “The Western packs I know.”

“I bet you do,” Argent agrees, but it’s not _exactly_ a dig. He still looks so very _thoughtful_.

Theo feels his jaw clench regardless, just slightly. “Why are you asking me all this?” He tries again.

The line of Argent’s mouth just tightens in turn. “Because all of this? That?” He nods towards Theo’s now bare wrist, the implication clear. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I thought it already got worse,” Theo counters.

Argent just smirks, sharp and a little—sad. “It can always get worse.”

“Cheery,” Theo observes, then: “Why’s it got to be Scott’s problem, then? I thought he was going to Davis in the fall.”

“He is,” Argent replies. “He’ll be going even if I have to drag him there myself. But,” he says, “that still leaves it as _my_ problem.”

His problem, and—if the look he gives Theo is any indication—maybe someone else’s, too.

“You’re kidding,” Theo replies bluntly. Argent just continues watching him, his lips curling back up into that smirk. “So, what?” Theo demands. “I almost get killed and suddenly you trust me?” He snorts. “Shit, if I’d known that’s all it’d take, I would have arranged something much sooner.”

Argent just laughs, low and under his breath. He glances away, his jaw working as he apparently tries to control the spread of his smile.

“You know,” he offers, apropos of nothing, “when he called last night, Brett was pretty sparse on the details.” Argent pauses, and levels another of those thoughtful, considering looks at him. “I thought it was because he was protecting you, and I was right, but for the wrong reasons.”

Theo feels his teeth grit. Argent just continues studying him.

“I’ve seen you fight, Theo,” he says. “Those hunters should be dead.”

Theo doesn’t reply. He’s not sure what the hell he could possibly _say_.

He is not, after all, sure what the right answer might be, or if there even is one. Argent just continues looking at him.

“You were trying to protect them,” he concludes, and he sounds absolutely certain. He’s not _asking_ Theo, or testing a theory; he’s stating a fact. “Brett, and Liam, and Scott, and the rest of the pack. Those hunters are still breathing because you were trying to protect them.”

Theo doesn’t agree. He also doesn’t _deny_ it.

Argent’s smirk becomes a grin. “So, to answer your earlier question: no, I’m not kidding.” He gives that a few seconds to percolate, and then he pats his hand a few last times against the side of his SUV, and opens the driver’s door. “Think about it,” he requests, and then he climbs inside, and shuts the door.

And so Theo watches him pull out of the clinic parking lot, and drive away, and does. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...we're done! 
> 
> Clearly my self-control is lacking, so the chances of me attempting a near two-week long posting cycle again are low. However, the chances of me writing a 75K+ word fic are _high_ , so I will have to continue to break them up into chapters. 
> 
> So, sound off, if you'd like--let me know if, in the future, I should try breaking up my stories into somewhere between 2-4 long chapters, and posting over a stretch of days, or if I should revert back to posting all at once, no matter the length.
> 
> In any case, thanks for coming along on this journey with me. Hope everyone is doing well in these crazy, crazy times.

_**Brett** _

Brett and Lori start packing up their apartment a week before Devenford’s graduation. It’s Lori who starts it but it’s Brett who doesn’t protest, and by the night before Beacon Hills’ graduation, most of the place is in boxes.

Brett doesn’t protest _that_ , either.

It does mean that when Liam blows through the front door that night, he runs directly into one of the boxes and is only saved from crashing directly into the opposite wall after he trips by Brett snapping out a hand, and hauling him back upright. 

“Jesus, Dunbar,” Brett laughs, releasing Liam’s arm only once he’s sure Liam is steady on his feet. Liam flushes.

Theo follows behind him at a more sedate pace. He looks precisely _not at all_ surprised to have witnessed Liam nearly eat it by having next to zero situational awareness. He smirks at Brett, and steps neatly around the very same box Liam had tripped over.

“Almost done, I see,” he observes, glancing around. He’d been over at various points throughout the week and had seen the progress.

“Aren’t you excited to haul all this down to your truck?” Lori asks him mock-brightly, a smaller box full of—silverware? Dishes? She’d come from the direction of the kitchen, anyway—in her hands.

Theo just gives her a dry look. “Remind me again how I become yours and your brother’s dedicated moving service?”

Lori gives him an even _drier_ look, and then shoots a smirking glance at where Brett and Liam are, probably, standing a little closer than they need to be. “You really want me to answer that?” Theo rolls his eyes. Lori smirks and flounces away like she’d won, which—she kind of had.

But Brett gets distracted by Liam punching him in the arm. “Hey, you’re still coming tomorrow, right?”

Brett’s brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Liam just flushes again, and doesn’t answer. Instead he turns to Theo and says, a little too loudly, “Our order was going to be ready soon, wasn’t it?”

Whatever’s going on with Liam, Theo apparently recognizes it for what it is, because he doesn’t rag on him, just agrees, “Yeah. We should probably go pick it up.”

But Liam just declares, “I’ve got it!,” and starts scrambling his way—though he’s mindful of the maze of boxes this time—towards the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Lori announces, and makes a face at him when Liam gives her a strange look. “Did you _see you_ like five minutes ago? I’m not trusting you to get our dinner back here without incident.”

Liam scowls and makes some comment back, and he and Lori end up squabbling all the way out into the hallway, and into the stairwell. They probably _keep_ squabbling past that, but the stairwell door slams shut and Brett doesn’t bother sharpening his hearing to keep listening. He looks at Theo.

“I know what you’re doing,” he assures him wryly.

Theo just fakes a confused, too-innocent expression and leans against the back of the living area’s couch. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You are,” Brett counters, moving a little closer to him, “incredibly transparent.”

He hesitates just a second, and then gives in to the rest of his earlier urge and kisses Theo, his hands coming up to rest on the back of the couch on either side of Theo’s hips, bracketing them. Theo just tilts his head up into it, and kisses him back.

“You really think you can charge me up with—” _pack_ “—interaction like some kind of battery for after Lori and I move to Oregon?” Brett wonders when he pulls back a half-minute or so later.

Theo just smirks. “I think you’re going to get sick of how often Liam invites himself over to the farmhouse.”

_Unlikely_ , Brett thinks. Out loud he just says, “Yeah? And what about you?” He searches Theo’s face. “You made up your mind about Argent’s offer, yet?”

Theo’s expression spasms a little, and he shrugs. “Not yet.”

_Yes, you have_ , Brett disagrees silently; he can feel the decision sitting rock-solid at the core of Theo’s being, like a rock in the middle of the stream that makes up the rest of Brett’s awareness of him. He doesn’t push.

On that, anyway; he does push up, and off of the couch. He picks his way back over to the dining area table, and starts sorting through the paperwork there looking for the envelope that he’d been messing with earlier. It’s under a packet of documents from Filipo confirming the new trust Brett and requested; the _stray fund_ , as Lori had started calling it, though she hadn’t been able to fully keep the warmth, and excitement, out of her voice. Brett tugs the envelope free, and holds it back, behind himself, towards Theo.

Theo comes forward and takes it. “What’s this?” He says, a little wary. He makes no move to open it, just holds it in his hands.

_Dork_ , Brett thinks, even as something a little more—sad twists in his chest. But: “Key,” Brett tells him, as offhand and as casually as possible. “For the farmhouse,” he clarifies, probably unnecessarily. Theo’s expression has gone slack with surprise, and he’s staring at Brett. This time it’s Brett who shrugs. “Just in case, you know, you’re in the area, and need a place to crash.”

“Brett,” Theo breathes, and then all at once he surges forward until he can take Brett’s face in his hands and kiss him, the envelope still clutched in one of his hands crumpling against Brett’s cheek.

Brett just groans, and presses harder into him. “Liam’s going to be pissed he wasn’t included,” Brett points out, breaking away a minute or so later because he _knows_ exactly where this is headed.

Theo just presses back into him. “We’ll make it up to him later,” he counters breathily.

Brett just bites off a harsh sound, and swings him around to start walking him back towards his bedroom.

Liam is pissed, if benignly so—though he immediately goes pink and subsides in even _that_ low level of irritation when Theo presses his mouth to Liam’s ear, and whispers something—when he and Lori get back. Lori just rolls her eyes, apparently inured to it at this point, and takes her armful of takeout boxes into the kitchen. 

They end up eating in the living room, because even with the nearly completely boxed-up nature of the apartment, it’s still relatively put-together. Lori ends up putting on the show that they’d been watching at Theo’s apartment that one day, because _she’s_ thoroughly addicted now; she’d caught up on the intervening seasons in between, and is now arguing passionately with Liam about some random plot line that Brett’s only vaguely been following. Brett exchanges a dry look with Theo over the top of both Liam’s and Lori’s heads, but Theo just smirks, not fooled at all.

Brett laughs, low and under his breath, and closes his eyes; with all of them so close together, talking and laughing and eating and with Liam shoving lightly at Lori’s shoulder, Lori squawking and bumping him right back, Brett’s awareness of them almost starts to blend into one warm, solid mass.

Brett lets his eyes open back up, and settles into it.

Liam leaves once it starts to get late, since he has to be at Beacon Hills High early. He does harass Brett into escorting him down to his SUV like he’s some kind of small child or invalid, but that seems to be primarily so he can shove Brett into a corner of the stairwell and kiss him. Brett’s not complaining, of course, though he does have to try, and mostly fail, to swallow down his laughter when another tenant goes to pass them on their way up the stairs, and Liam jerks back, his face _flaming_.

Brett just pulls him back in, and kisses him some more.

When he gets back up to his and Lori’s apartment from dropping Liam off at his SUV, both Lori and Theo are half-asleep, stretched out on the couch and the loveseat respectively. The show is still playing in the background. Brett reaches for the remote, and pauses it.

“You planning on staying?” He asks Theo, tone as easy and off-hand as he can get it.

“Figured I would,” Theo agrees, his voice the same attempted-casual. “I can run back over to my place tomorrow morning to shower and change before we leave for Beacon Hills.”

From her place on the couch and without bothering to even open her eyes, Lori snorts. “Please. Like one or both of you is going to miss the chance to follow the other into the shower.”

Brett beats Theo to whipping a pillow at her.

Back in his bedroom after they’ve all traded off getting ready for bed—and with Theo in an old pair of Brett’s sweatpants that he _still_ has to roll up a time or two—Brett finds Theo frowning thoughtfully down at a book that he’d clearly retrieved off of Brett’s nightstand. He looks up at Brett when Brett steps back into the room.

“You read it,” he states, holding up the Denio pack journal he’d given Brett a few weeks ago. Brett’s not sure how he can tell—scent, maybe, from Brett’s fingers holding the cover, and pages—but in any case Brett doesn’t deny it. 

Instead he drops onto the bed next to Theo, and then lays back and props himself up on one bent elbow as he looks at Theo. “It was a good read,” he replies, shrugging.

Theo just gives him a knowing look, though it’s softer than his usual smirk. He also starts to lean over to slide it back onto Brett’s nightstand, but Brett reaches out, and stops him. His hand lands on Theo’s left wrist, and for a moment the all-encompassing strangeness of the skin there being bare—Theo’s bracelet gone, almost like it’d never been there—takes over everything. But:

“You need it back?” Brett wonders, pulling his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He looks up at him when Theo looks down, his brow furrowed curiously. “For when you head out with Argent.” Brett gives him a tiny grin. “Study material, or whatever.”

Theo just rolls his eyes, and finishes setting the book back down in its place. But then he flops onto his back next to Brett, and turns his head to look over at him. He pulls his lips between his teeth.

“You think I should do it?” He asks quietly.

Brett searches his face. “I think you want to,” he finally says. “So, yeah.”

Theo just snorts, a little, but there’s something more raw underneath his world-weary expression; something like _hope_. “Think it’s that easy, huh?”

Brett doesn’t meet him sarcasm for sarcasm. Instead he just keeps looking at him—steady, steady—and quietly replies, “I think it can be if you let it.”

Theo just stares, his expression cracking open to reveal that rawness underneath. He jerks his head away for a second, his face turning up towards the ceiling, and the breath he sucks in through his nose is shaky. 

And then all at once he rolls over, tipping Brett over onto his back and pinning him there with Theo’s knees on either side of his hips, and Theo’s hands braced on either side of his head. 

“Maybe it can be,” he agrees, his words as intent as his eyes on Brett’s face. “You going to help me figure out if it can?”

Brett just studies him, for a few seconds, his eyes searching Theo’s face. And then he reaches up, and gets his hands around Theo’s jaw, and pulls him down so that Brett can kiss him.

“Yeah,” he says— _promises_ —against Theo’s lips. “Yeah, I am.”

_**Liam** _

“These things are fucking hot as shit,” Liam mutters, plucking at the synthetic cotton-blend of the graduation gown he’s not so much wearing as _draped_ in. It doesn’t help that the maroon color reflects the sun up into his eyes, and he has to keep squinting; his mom had confiscated his sunglasses with extreme prejudice when he’d tried to leave the house with them this morning.

His eyes drift up to the stands lining the field as he says it, and then snap back forward. He can feel himself flush, and prays that anyone looking at him attributes it to the fact that _these things are fucking hot as shit_.

Stood next to him in the mass of other graduating seniors as they all wait to file onto the field and take their seats in the folding chairs already set up for that purpose, Mason shoots him a strange look. “Why are you so fidgety?” He demands. He twists his head to look up into the stands, too. “And why do you keep looking into the stands?”

“I’m not,” Liam denies immediately. Of course, he instantly turns that into a lie as he reflexively glances back up, and into the stands.

Theo raises his eyebrows. He’d been _listening_ , the bastard. Beside him, Brett just smirks, and keeps his eyes forward, but there’s no way he isn’t listening, too. 

_I hate you both_ , Liam thinks, irritated, but he’s biting down on a smile even as he thinks it.

Finally Ms. Martin—poised at the front of their little group and waiting for some kind of cue—gestures to them and says, “Alright, c’mon.” She leads them out onto the field and then keeps going, trusting them to take their seats without supervision as they’d rehearsed, and climbing up onto the stage. Liam has to split away from Corey and Mason, since they’re all sitting alphabetically, and smiles absently at Ju-Lie Chen as he drops into his seat next to her.

The ceremony is long, and mostly a blur. Liam’s too focused on not overheating, and the creaks and subtle groans of the folding chairs as his fellow students shift, and the low murmur of conversation from the stands as the friends and families of the students talk. He doesn’t realize that he’s seeking out a handful of specific voices until he finds them: his parents and Mason’s parents, and Scott and Stiles and Malia and Lydia and Derek, all of them chatting to each other and to Ms. McCall and Argent, and the Sheriff, all of them laughing and with their smiles evident in their voices and _easy_.

Liam sneaks another look up into the stands at Theo, and Brett, and even _Lori_ , all mixed in with the others and grinning just as much. He has to duck his head to hide his own smile.

And then he jumps, and nearly falls out of his chair in sudden surprise, because Ms. Martin calls, “Liam Dunbar.”

The entire clump of the McCall pack and pack-adjacent—including Theo and Brett and Lori—all jump to their feet. They’d done the same for Corey but Liam and been too focused on his own raucous cheering to really register it, and now he _flushes_ , even as he laughs, helplessly, and picks his way through the row of chairs to start making his way up to the stage. He’s partway up the stairs when he glances up and sees the ridiculous _sign_ that Lori is now holding, which she’d _definitely_ gone out of her way not to let him catch sight of earlier, and his expression goes dry as he mutters, “For _fuck’s—_ ”

Ms. Martin is giving him the hairy eyeball. He swallows the rest of his sentence, and grimaces apologetically.

The little rolled-up paper she hands him seems ridiculously fragile. Liam _instantly_ starts worrying he’s going to crush it, and then he worries that he’s going to crush Ms. Martin’s _hand_ as she offers it, and then poses for the picture that the school’s photographer is snapping, and so Liam resigns himself to the look on his face being especially dopey. 

He practically makes a _break_ for it once Ms. Martin releases him with one last, genuinely warm _congratulations_ —her arm around him and rubbing before she squeezes—but he’s grinning, wide and helpless.

So is, it turns out, the rest of the pack, and his and Mason’s parents, and Theo and Brett and Lori all still on their feet and cheering. He grins wider.

The rest of the ceremony is even _more_ of a blur, once Liam takes his seat again. He snaps out of it exactly _once_ when Mason’s name is called, just _barely_ resisting jumping to his feet—Ms. Martin had put the fear of god into them about decorum during rehearsal—and instead dropping his diploma into his lap and clapping wildly as he _whoops_ and yells. In the row in front of him and a few seats down, he can hear Corey doing the same.

But once Mason’s sat back down, too, Liam’s attention drops back to his lap. He picks up the little rolled tube of his diploma, his fingers playing around the edges, and the ribbon, as he tips it back and forth in his hands. _Getting kicked out of Devenford_ , he thinks after a second, and strokes his thumb down the side of the paper in an invisible little line: _one_. _Getting bitten_ ; two. _The Berserkers. The Deadpool. Kate._ Stroke, stroke, stroke. 

The chimeras. The Dread Doctors. Hayden. Liam falters, and looks up into the stands. 

_Theo_. He adds another stroke.

By the time he’s done, he’s nearly covered the side of his diploma with invisible little check-marks. The paper remains unmarked but the pad of his thumb still tingles, a bit, and that phantom feeling remains even as the last of the graduating seniors’ names are called, and Ms. Martin gives a short little concluding speech, and then announces, “Congratulations, graduates!”

The entire _field_ breaks into an absolute _roar_ of noise.

As the seniors all rush from their seats to find their families and each other, Liam makes a direct beeline for Mason and Corey. They’re mid-passionate kiss and Liam complains, “Oh, god, come _on_ ,” without any actual heat whatsoever, and pauses to trade a quick forearm clasp and half-hug with a few of his other graduating lacrosse players, all of them murmuring _congratulations, man_ , as they go. 

He’s just pulled back from Anderson when he’s suddenly half-tacked forward, Mason and Corey both practically leaping onto his back. He recovers his balance and twists around to get an arm around them both into a clumsy group-hug, laughing and pressing his forehead forward against both Corey’s and Mason’s as they press back into him. 

“We made it,” Liam tells them, incredulous and laughing. “After all the shit that’s happened the last few years, can you believe we fucking _made it?_ ” 

“No!” Corey admits, laughing just as incredulously. “I really fucking can’t!”

Liam just laughs, even as something in his chest is twisting _hard_ , and pulls them both in even more. 

That’s how the rest of the pack and their parents and Theo and Brett and Lori all find them, apparently having fought their way through the masses of other students and their families. Mason and Corey immediately break off to go hug Mason’s parents, and Liam turns into his own, and then works his way through first Scott, then Ms. McCall and Argent and the Sheriff and the rest of the pack, laughing and hugging them and responding, “Thanks, thank you,” to every heartfelt congratulations. He even hugs _Lori_ , squeezing her tight even as he tells her, “Fuck you _and_ your sign.”

And then he turns to Theo, and Brett.

“Congratulations, Dunbar,” Brett tells him, grinning and with his hands in his pockets, and just before Theo says, “Managed to pull it off there at the end, huh?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Liam shoots back, but he’s grinning. 

But he’s already reaching forward, automatically and without any conscious thought, to grab the sides of Theo’s head, and yank him down into a hard, open-mouthed kiss. Theo stiffens under his hands at first, and then he melts, just a little, and presses back into it. Liam pulls back, after a second, and grins at him.

And then he reaches over, and gets a hand on Brett’s collar, and pulls him down, too.

It’s only after he pulls back from Brett, and notices that the three of them are now standing in a little pocket of stunned silence, that he realizes what he’d just done. He twists around a little to look at the clump of the rest of the pack and his and Mason’s parents and _Mason_ and _Corey_ all staring at them, open-mouthed.

“Um,” Liam says, his face _flaming_. 

In front of him, Theo just starts to _laugh_. “Okay, well,” Brett says, a little blankly. “That’s certainly one way to do it.”

“Corey,” Mason suddenly orders, turning to him. “Pinch me. There’s no way something that hot was real.”

Corey chokes on his own breath and then starts to laugh, but it isn’t until _Stiles_ ups the ante by adding, “Pinch _me_ , too. I think I had a dream like this once,” Lydia rolling her eyes and Derek smacking him upside the back of the head, that the stunned moment just—breaks. 

That’s all the adjustment anyone needs, apparently.

It’s Liam’s dad who extends a hand to Brett after a second and offers, “Mr. Talbot. Been a while.”

“Yeah,” Brett agrees, sounding a little stiff; he hadn’t come today expecting to meet anyone’s parents, apparently. Which is fair, because Liam hadn’t exactly been expecting to _introduce_ anyone to his parents.

Still, his mom is pulling a suddenly-nervous looking Theo into a hug, and the rest of the pack is filtering over to talk to Brett and Lori, and it’s just—easy. Liam lets himself lean a little against Brett, and grin a little at Theo—still half-trapped under his mom’s arm—and laughs.

Everyone eventually decamps for the McCall house for Liam’s and Mason’s and Corey’s combined graduation party. Finding parking is an absolute _nightmare_ , since the three of them are some of the last to arrive since they’d had to go home, and—at least in Liam’s case, because the fucking gowns had been _hot as shit_ —shower, but it’s _worth it_ for the way the entire house and even the backyard smells of warmth and good food and _pack_. Liam leaves Mason and Corey talking to Lydia when she snags Mason, the two of them falling almost immediately into a deep discussion about Mason’s proposed course-load, and goes to find Theo and Brett.

He finds them talking to Scott.

“Oh, good,” Scott announces, looping an arm around Liam’s neck and dragging him in. “I was _just_ telling these two how they get to come to UCLA with us now when we go to introduce you to the packs who oversee the campus, since they’re going to have to declare themselves now that they’ll be _visiting_.”

The way he says _visiting_ just has way too much unnecessary subtext. “You,” Liam tells him, wiggling out from under his arm, “have been spending _way too much_ time with Stiles, clearly.”

Scott just waggles his eyebrows, and then goes to help his mom with something when she calls his name.

It leaves Liam standing alone in front of Brett and Theo, and all at once he feels a bolt of nervousness shoot up his spine. “Sorry,” he mutters, tucking his hands in his back pockets and shuffling some as he drops his eyes, and digs the toe of one of his shoes into the dirt of the McCall’s yard. “I didn’t mean to, uh,” he pauses, trying to think of a good word, “ _announce_ us like that, earlier.”

But when he sneaks a look back up at them, neither Theo nor Brett look upset, or even annoyed. Instead Theo just gives Brett a considering look, and then tangles a hand in his collar and yanks him into a hard, brief kiss. Then he pushes him back, and hooks his fingers in Liam’s collar, instead.

“There,” he says, when he pulls back from Liam’s mouth. “Now we’re _fully_ announced, or whatever.”

Liam just stares at him, and then _grins_.

All of them end up getting pulled in different directions throughout the night. Brett ends up in an involved conversation with Scott and Derek, at one point, while Theo and Argent and the Sheriff wind up huddled together and _clearly_ talking about the hunt for Monroe. Liam nearly sharpens his hearing to listen, before he—lets it go, and goes to join Mason and Corey huddled around the McCall’s dilapidated old fire pit talking with Lydia and Stiles about college life; Stiles is _clearly_ spinning bullshit that Lydia keeps rolling her eyes at, and correcting.

Liam sits down next to Lori, who’d been hovering on the edge of the conversation, listening but only every now and then participating. He nudges her.

“Any idea what you’re going to be doing when Corey and Mason and I are stuck in some lecture hall regretting all our life choices?” He wonders, as offhandedly as possible.

Lori just gives him a dry look. “You mean when I’m trying _not_ to overhear what you and Raeken and my brother are going to get up to whenever one or both of you comes to visit?” 

Liam’s face flames again. “Yeah,” he finally manages. “That.”

Lori just grins, apparently well-pleased with the reaction she’d gotten. But then her expression sobers a little, and she looks out and up, at the twilight-dark sky. 

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “Figuring out what life’s going to be like, I guess, now that,” she falters, “that everything has changed.”

Liam grimaces sympathetically, and then his attention is caught when across the yard, Brett laughs. Liam smiles, slightly. “Well, not everything,” he tells Lori, looking back at her. “You still have your brother.”

Lori studies him for a second, and then glances at Brett. “True.” Her mouth curls in a soft smile. “And maybe not just my brother, anymore.” 

Her eyes drift around the yard, and the various clumps of people—Scott pressing a kiss into Malia’s hair, Mason and Corey and Stiles and Lydia still talking, Theo now helping Ms. McCall and the Sheriff and the rest of the adults transport food from the grill to the table, Brett and Derek helping a recently-arrived Parrish with an armful of firewood—scattered throughout it. Her smile grows. She looks back at Liam.

Liam looks back.

“Welcome,” he tells her, grinning wide, “to the—” _pack, to the family,_ “—insanity.”

_**Theo** _

At the Devenford graduation the next week, Theo’s the first one to notice that something’s up, but that’s probably only because Brett’s distracted by Lori’s fingers tangled in the collar of his gown as she tries to ‘fix’ it, and mostly only succeeds in nearly strangling him.

“Hey, Brett,” Theo asks over his shoulder, his eyes on the bleachers bordering Devenford’s athletic field. “Did you know that—” _the entire McCall pack was planning on showing up_ , “—this was a thing?”

Brett finishes batting Lori’s fingers away from his collar, and comes up to stand just off Theo’s shoulder. He stares at the section—and it is a full _section_ —of the stands taken up by Liam and Scott and the rest of the pack, along with Liam’s parents and Ms. McCall and Argent and the Sheriff; Liam notices them looking and starts to cheer as obnoxiously as possible, which sets the rest of them off. 

“No,” Brett concludes, more than a little blankly. “I did not.” There’s something to his voice that’s a little—stunned.

Lori comes up on Theo’s other side to look. “Wow,” she breathes, and then that same breath catches and she whispers, “Holy _shit_.”

“What?” Brett demands, looking at her just as sharply as Theo does. “What is it?” 

But then he must turn to look where she’s looking instead, and _his_ breath catches. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he echoes, just as stunned.

“Jesus christ,” Theo complains. “ _What?_ ”

Brett just jerks his chin towards—a woman with a lined face and a wicked smile, another man standing just off her shoulder. Brett starts to open his mouth to no doubt identify both for Theo, but Theo beats him to it.

“Shohreh Khorasani,” he breathes. “Holy _shit._ ”

Brett and Lori both give him strange looks. “You know her?” Lori demands.

“By reputation,” Theo replies, and swallows. He’d been scenting so much giddy nervousness from all the other graduating seniors that he’d basically stopped noticing it, but _now_ it starts to filter back in, because he can feel it cloying in his _own_ chest. He can’t stop staring at Shohreh.

But he jerks when Brett ducks his head around a little to catch his eye, and then frowns, softly. He looks back towards Shohreh, too, and then back at Theo. Theo grimaces, but it’s not like he has any desire to go into detail about how Shohreh had been one of the few alphas to ever come _close_ to catching the Doctors. He gives Brett a tiny little shrug. Brett just searches his face.

He searches it, and then all at once his own expression goes resolute. He leans forward and presses his mouth to Theo’s. 

When he pulls back, he spends a full second looking at Theo—who stares, open-mouthed and stunned, back—and then he very deliberately turns and meets Shohreh’s eyes. He nods, when he catches them, and Shohreh—nods back.

Suddenly Theo can breathe fully again.

“Come on,” Brett says, turning back to him. He flicks his eyes to Lori’s and smiles at her, too. “Let’s go.” They file out with the rest of the seniors.

Their reception after the ceremony ends is quite possibly even more raucous than Liam’s and Mason’s and Corey’s had been, though that might be because Liam and Mason and Corey are _included_ in it this time, and taking full advantage. They’d also, apparently, all collaborated on even more ridiculous signs to help Liam get his revenge on Lori, and so all three of them almost immediately have to take off running when Lori shrieks _Dunbar!_ upon seeing them, and takes off after them.

Theo and Brett leave them weaving throughout the other crowds of students and families, and accept the parade of congratulations and warm embraces they get from the rest of the McCall pack and Liam’s parents; Theo overhears Brett murmur _thank you_ as Brett and Scott are hugging, and he smiles, slightly, and looks away. 

But then Shohreh Khorasani and her companion join their little group, and Brett’s earlier display notwithstanding, Theo still _pales_. 

He’s saved from having to decide what to do when Brett steps forward, and past him, into Shohreh’s waiting arms. “I didn’t know you were coming,” Brett whispers against her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Shohreh hugs him tightly, and then pulls back to cup his face between her hands. “Satomi would be so proud of you. _Both_ of you,” she adds, because Lori reappears, her hair a little wild but her expression raw as she presses forward underneath the arm Shohreh lifts, so that she’s cradling both Brett and Lori against her chest.

Theo looks away, his throat tight.

But he has to look back the next second, jumping, because there are suddenly cool fingers on his face. He jerks, and looks back at Shohreh as she studies him.

“Shohreh, this is Theo,” Brett hurries to say, glancing back and forth between them.

“Yes, I know,” Shohreh agrees. “Theo Raeken.”

Theo feels his expression spasm, panic bolting down his spine. Shohreh just continues looking levelly back at him. “You know who I am,” he realizes.

“I know who you _were_ ,” Shohreh corrects, and her eyes drop to—Theo’s left wrist. 

She makes a little gesture— _may I?_ —and Theo, after a moment’s hesitation, lifts his wrist and sets it into the palm of her hand. She twists it this way and that, studying the bracelet. _The_ bracelet, the very same leather strip that Theo had asked to take with him when he’d left the animal clinic after Deaton had removed it. Her eyes snag on the holes that Theo had punched through either end of the strip, and threaded a thinner leather string through so that he could tie it back onto his wrist. She runs a finger over the knot holding the once-again bracelet closed, and then slowly lowers his wrist back down to his side.

“I do not, however,” she finally concludes, “know who you _are_ , or who you might be.” Her eyes flick to Brett, and then to Liam—emerging much like Lori had from the crowds of other students, Liam sweaty and out-of-breath but _immediately_ clocking the odd atmosphere—and she smiles. “But I look forward to finding out.”

Theo doesn’t know what to say. He just keeps staring at her. It’s Ms. McCall who rescues him as she suddenly leans forward, just a little, and offers, “Well, we rented the rooftop deck at Brett and Lori’s apartment building. So if you and Daniel would like—” she says, nodding towards Shohreh’s companion, “—you could start finding out there?”

Shohreh just grins, and nods, and says, “That sounds lovely,” even as Brett is staring at Ms. McCall in total bewilderment and saying, “You did _what?_ ”

The rooftop deck at Brett and Lori’s apartment building is bigger than the McCall back yard, but not by _that_ much, and with the entire McCall pack and Liam’s parents and Ms. McCall and Argent and the Sheriff _plus_ Shohreh and McPherson, it fills up fast. But Theo finds he doesn’t mind the constant bumping proximity, no matter how much he may have expected to, because the sight and smell and just general _feel_ of the crowded rooftop—three packs together, and blending effortlessly—is just…something.

It’s something enough, in fact, that at one point Theo has to excuse himself from the general mix of things, and go lean against a section of deck railing, a sweating bottle of soda in his hands. The night’s crisp but Theo is still overheated from the press of Liam up against his side, or the heat of the grill as he’d wandered past it, or the warmth of the patio warmers that a harassed-looking complex employee had come up to light. He tips his face back a little in the breeze wending over the rooftop, his eyes slipping closed.

But he opens them back up when someone leans against the railing next to him. He turns his head to look at Argent.

“I took a look at that map you gave me,” Argent tells him, and then takes a sip of the beer he’s holding. “The route you’d already picked out is solid. We’ll need to deviate here and there, but overall, we should be able to follow it.”

Theo just smirks, sharp and amused, and looks back out, towards the city stretched out beneath them. “I haven’t said yes.”

Argent smirks in turn. “You still think Nevada first?”

Theo keeps his eyes on the night-dark spread of city street, dotted here and there with streetlights and the red-yellow-green of changing stoplights. “Yeah,” he finally agrees. “We need to clean out that operating theater as soon as possible, if only to keep anyone else from stumbling across what the—” he has to pause, and swallow, “—Doctors left behind.”

Argent nods, smooth and easy. “We can do that.”

Theo tilts his head to look at him. “We need to do a few other things, too.”

“Like?” Argent prompts, eyebrows raising.

Theo just grins, and twists so that he’s got his back to the railing instead. He catches Liam’s eyes across the deck, and tips him a little salute with his bottle. “Scott’s heading to UCLA for Liam’s formal introduction to the packs there at the beginning of August. I’ve got to be there to meet up with him and Liam and Brett.”

“Done,” Argent agrees. Then his smile goes a little wry. “And the other ‘things?’”

Theo smirks. “Just one,” he says, and brings his right hand up to twist the bracelet around his left wrist around one turn; to tug a little at the string holding it onto his wrist. He tips his head to grin at Argent. “We have to make a pit stop on the way to Nevada.”

“Oh, yeah?” Argent wonders. “Where at?”

“Oregon,” Theo answers immediately, and grins when Brett’s head suddenly jerks up from across the deck, and twists to look at Theo, his gaze intent. 

His smirk goes a little softer when he sees the stunned look on Brett’s face, and he bites his lip, and looks back at Argent. He can feel the weight of the key Brett had given him sitting heavy inside his pocket.

“I have to drop some stuff off, first.”

Argent studies him for a second, and then he holds out his beer bottle. Theo twists so that he can tap his own soda bottle against it, and then they both drink. His bracelet gleams in the patio lights as he tips his bottle back, and over it, he can see Brett still staring at him, and Liam joking with Corey and Mason, and the rest of the combined McCall and Talbot packs talking and laughing and joking and _living_.

He finishes his drink, and when Argent goes to rejoin the rest of the party, Theo follows him. 

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback loved! If you liked, please consider a comment or a [reblog](https://eneiryu.tumblr.com/post/618401611925061632/the-knock-at-the-door-came-one-two-three)!


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